Life is What Happens
by PeaceLoveBeatles18
Summary: ... when you're making other plans. And I had no idea how true this could be until I fell in love with my best friend. Some people would say I was lucky, and in some ways I was. Except for the fact that it was illegal. McLennon.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Guess what? I finally got around to posting this! For those of you who have read this already either when it was on FF for the first time, or on TheCrazyViolist's forum, thank you. If this is your first time reading it, also thank you! I hope you like it.**

**This is set in late 1963. Enjoy!**

**I do not own the Beatles. (But I wish I did)**

**Paul's POV**

"Paul... Paul!" My eyes snapped open sharply. John was standing over me, his hair hanging in his eyes.

"What the bloody hell do you _want?_" I grumbled, pulling my pillow over my eyes in an attempt to block him out. He yanked it away and tossed my only protection against this assailment on my precious sleep to the floor. It was then that I noticed the creative glint in his eyes that I knew only too well. "You just wrote a song, didn't you?" I asked right at the same time that he was telling me that he had written a song.

"Uh-huh," he nodded. "But I can't write a middle eight to save me bloody life! Help me?" He pleaded. I yawned and glanced blearily over at the clock: 4 am. There was no way in heaven or anywhere else that I was going to be able to fall asleep again. _Damn John and his ideas that always seem to come at the worst times, _I thought.

"Why not?" I sighed and rolled out of bed. We were on tour and George, like usual, was rooming with me. He was a light sleeper and we padded quietly out to avoid waking him.

John sat down in a chair and pulled his guitar onto his lap. His calloused fingers strummed the strings and nimbly moved up and down the fretboard. There was never a time that John was more relaxed than when he was playing the guitar. All the walls that so closely guarded his emotions fell down and bared his soul for all to see. If you knew what to look for like I did, that is. His soft lips shaped the words quietly so they just barely reached my ears.

_Oh yeah I'll tell you something_

_I think you'll understand._

_When I say that something_

_I want to hold your hand..._

I was so engrossed in watching John play that I was hardly listening. I could tell that it was going to be a good song, but past that I couldn't tell you what I thought. I was too busy watching the way his light auburn hair fell into his eyes with a sort of accidental grace. And those eyes, those sparkling, brown, humorous—I shut down my train of thought before it could go any further. Where in heck was all of this coming from? John was my best mate. I shouldn't have been thinking about him like this. _Save those thoughts for Jane, Paulie._ I told myself.

John came to an abrupt halt and peered up at me. He had forgotten his glasses and was squinting like a mole above ground. "This is where I got to an hour ago. D'you have any ideas?" I motioned for him to hand the guitar over. He passed it into my hands and I felt a shiver rush over my skin where his rough hands touched mine. It wasn't unpleasant, but I couldn't place exactly what it was. It couldn't be love, could it? No, that was impossible. I flipped the guitar upside down so I could play it and started messing around with chords that meshed with the part of the song that John had already finished. A half-hour later I had a pretty good idea of how it could go.

"Hey, John?" I said, startling a very nearly asleep guitarist.

"Huh?" he yawned, rubbing his eyes and stretching.

"I think I've got your middle eight." I said, shifting the guitar into a more comfortable position.

He sat up, now wide awake. "Well, let's hear it then!" I played it and he nodded approvingly. "But you could do _this_ with the beginning bit..." he said, reaching over and moving my hands on the neck of the guitar. This time I didn't shiver. But I did feel a hot blush sneaking up the back of my neck and was suddenly grateful for the poor lighting situation in the room. For the next little while, we added harmonies and a drum pattern. An extended break in John's contributions prompted me to glance over at him. He had fallen asleep, the guitar hanging loosely in his grasp.

The multitudes of screaming fans kept him awake at night quite often and sometimes those many sleepless nights caught up with him. As they had now.

I got up and gently removed the guitar from his limp hands. A blanket lay over the back of the couch. I pulled it off and draped it over his sleeping form. Suddenly, an overwhelming desire to kiss his forehead overtook me. I pulled myself away before such a royal screw-up could be made on my behalf and settled for brushing his hair out of his eyes. He moved in his sleep a little and murmured something unintelligible. I went back to bed wondering what the hell was wrong with me, and as a result I didn't get any sleep at all. I tossed and turned until George climbed out with a mumbled protest and passed out on the nearest sofa.

At nine I heard George rustling around in the kitchen, presumably looking for something to eat. That kid was always hungry no matter what time of day it was. Forget the Quiet Beatle. Try the Hungry Beatle. Realizing that any further attempts at sleep would be futile, I heaved myself out of bed and shuffled in the direction of the food sounds. George was locked in an intense battle with a new box of cornflakes that was refusing to open.

"C'mon you little bugger, _open!_" He grunted, reduced to tearing at it with his sharp teeth.

"Um, George?" I called. "You might try this nifty little invention called _scissors._" I waved a pair in his direction. He shot me the bird.

"Oh, sod off. I was hungry and when I'm hungry I can't think straight! You know that!" He whined, snatching the scissors out of my grasp and going to work on the obstinate bag of cereal.

"Good morning, boys." Brian entered our room from his separate one. He was already impeccably dressed as was the usual.

"Morning, Eppy," we said in unison.

"Well, don't run me over with your enthusiasm." He said dryly, taking in our tired features.

Ringo chose this moment to enter the kitchen, looking more asleep than awake yet. He was probably the least perky in the morning out of all of us and that was saying something. We were tired in the morning, Ringo was comatose. He made a zombielike beeline for the coffee maker and poured himself a cup. "Me little mug of sunshine," he said fondly of the caffeinated beverage.

John was still fast asleep in the chair. Brian looked over at him. "The fans keep him awake all the time," I explained.

"I hardly ever notice 'em." Ringo shrugged, drinking his coffee and pouring himself a bowl of the cornflakes.

"Rings when you're asleep there isn't much you _do _notice." George informed him, tackling a bowl of the cereal so full it was nearly overflowing.

"Hey Georgie, save some for the rest of us!" I said teasingly. I received an annoyed look.

At last, John decided to wake up. He stumbled into the kitchen and plopped down at the table without a word to anyone. His hair was an absolute rat's nest, sticking up in the most random of places and his eyes were still half-shut with sleep.

But in my opinion, he looked fine, just fine. And then it hit me, all the nagging suspicions that had been circulating around in my waking and sleeping mind came together.

I was in love with my best friend; John Winston Lennon.

**A/N: Well, there we have it! Chapter one of Life is What Happens! Did you think it was great? Did you think it sucked? I don't care either way, I just want to know. So tell me in a review? Please?**


	2. Chapter 2

******A/N: Well, here we go! Chapter 2 of Life is What Happens.**

**John's POV**

To the average listener, the song that Paul had helped me with was from a generic guy to a generic girl. For awhile, I was the generic listener to my own song. It sounds sad, believe you me, I know, but I wasn't listening to the subtle hints my subconscious mind was giving me.

"Boys? Get up!" Brian's voice cut through my blissful sleep. There was a simultaneous groan from all four of us. I felt like someone had beat me over the head with a sandbag.

"_What,_ Eppy?" I groused, scraping my unruly mop of hair out of my eyes.

"You have a recording session today. Get going." George rolled a little too far and rolled right out of bed onto the floor with a muffled _clunk._

"Ouch," he muttered, trying to wiggle out of his blankets that he was now entangled in. "Goddammit."

"Language, Geo." Paul was awake enough to teasingly chide the youngest Beatle. He sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with one hand while his other fumbled for his watch so he could see at what hour he had been jolted out of his slumbers.

I heaved myself out of bed and staggered over to where my clothes were. God, I was tired. I felt like someone had glued weights to my eyelids. Paul and I had been up writing yet another song until the wee hours of the morning again. The beginnings of a headache was starting to grow in my temples. I took a minute to slowly massage them to try and alleviate the pain. To no avail, they still resolutely throbbed.

"John?" Paul's soft voice called out behind me. I turned to him. His hazel, puppy-dog eyes were worried.

"Yeah?" My voice was still croaky and my throat was scratchy like I'd just swallowed a handful of sand.

"You okay?" he asked in concern. I forced a smile on my face that he'd be able to tell was fake right away. I didn't want him to worry about me.

"I'm fine, Macca." He nodded, but I could tell he didn't believe me. Paul could see through me so easily, I may as well have been made of glass. I could read him quickly and accurately too, and sometimes we didn't even have to speak, we knew what the other was thinking.

I made my way into the bathroom to take a shower and change. My headache was growing, and I could hardly move my neck without it paining me, it was so stiff. _I really hope I'm not getting sick, _I thought, toweling off my hair. I pulled my jeans and short sleeved t-shirt on and walked out of the bathroom. Ringo stood outside the door, belongings in hand, still drowsy.

"'Bout time you finished in there," he mumbled, walking past me with dragging feet. "I thought you fell in or summat." Ringo was never too tired to make a humorous comment, well, almost never too tired.

I felt absolutely godawful by this point. _Maybe I just need a cup of coffee,_ I thought. _Yeah, that's it._ I made my way into the kitchen. George and Paul had finished eating and were sitting around the table nursing cups of coffee.

I poured myself a cup and sat down. I wasn't hungry at all. The very thought of food repulsed me.

"John, you want some breakfast?" George asked, running his hand through his unruly hair.

"No, thanks." I waved him off. Paul started to say something, but George nudged him under the table and he closed his mouth. Knowing Paul, he was probably going to tell me that under no circumstances was I going to live this house without at least some food.

Ringo came in, poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat down with an expelled sigh. I took a gulp of my coffee and it made my stomach churn sickeningly. _Looks like that's enough of that, _I thought, taking my mug to the sink and rinsing it out.

"We have to go now, boys." Brian stuck his head around the doorway.

"Don't go getting your knickers in a twist, Eppy. We're coming." I just couldn't resist teasing our manager. I shot him a smirk and received an exasperated glare in return. We filed out and piled into the car. A shriek assaulted my eardrums.

"It's the BEATLES!" A collection of girl's voices screeched.

"Here we go again, fellas," Paul said, peering out the window. "How'd they manage to recognize us from all the way over _there?_" he asked incredulously. The screaming was doing nothing for my head. I resisted the urge to drop my head into my hands and moan.

"I think they have a built-in Beatles radar." Ringo said in wonder, glancing out the window to see a bunch of crazy girls attempting to catch up to our car.

"Probably," George affirmed, peeking out the window nervously.

The crowd was growing by the minute, as was my headache. I rested my head on the welcome cool of the window. Paul watched me sharply. His concern for me sent a peculiar little flutter through my stomach. I dismissed it as part of my oncoming illness.

The car pulled to a stop in front of the studio and the hysterical girls converged on the car. "They've absolutely gone potty out there!" Brian breathed, his face paling a little.

"That they have," Paul agreed. "How're we gonna get in without getting killed?"

"Get out fast and run even faster," Brian said. We gave him a look. "I wasn't planning on a bunch of girls seeing you, this isn't _my _fault!" he exclaimed.

"Never mind, let's just go," I said, shifting my weight so I was facing the door. "One, two, three..." The doors flew open and a wave of solid sound pounded against my eardrums. We made a beeline for the door crouched in a defensive position. Hands tore at my hair and clothing, making me stagger back and forth. My head felt like it was going to burst, and then we finally dashed through the door.

Ringo's hair stood on end in the weirdest of places, George's shirt was quite rumpled, as it had nearly been yanked over his head, but Paul was the worst of all. There was a chunk ripped out of his shirt, his belt loops were torn, and most worrisome of all was a split lip that refused to stop bleeding.

I grabbed a tissue and handed it to him. "Thanks," he dabbed at it, wincing. It looked so painful.

My head was pounding like Ringo's drums as we went into the studio. "Let's go over the new song a bit," Paul suggested. I snapped out of the reverie I was in, watching Paul's nimble fingers tune his Hofner.

"Okay," I picked up my guitar and ran my fingers over the strings, checking the tuning. I discovered that one of the strings was flat and adjusted it accordingly. I felt Paul's eyes on me again. They seemed to be burning right through me.

"Oi, Paulie, is my face just too beautiful for you to keep your eyes off it?" I asked, winking at him. His cheeks turned pink and he mumbled something unintelligible instead of coming back with a snappy retort like usual. I wondered what was up with him.

A half-hour later we were attempting to record our other song and Ringo just couldn't get a handle on keeping a steady beat to this one. I reached my breaking point. "Ringo, is it _that_ fucking hard to keep a fucking beat?" I growled, stalking over to him. His big blue eyes widened in shock and he inched backwards.

"John! What the hell, man?" Paul grabbed my wrist and I turned to look him in the face. Doing so made my anger drain, for some reason.

"I dunno," I mumbled. "Sorry, Rings." Ringo looked even more shocked to hear me apologizing. I returned to my microphone. Five minutes later, we started recording again. During one of his pauses, George reached down to pick up a spare pick and the head of his guitar collided with his microphone, making a loud bonking noise that would be clearly audible on the recording. I waved at George Martin to cut and then fixed my stare on George.

"Fabulous George. Now we have to do the whole fucking thing _again._" He blanched. "Did you really need that bloody pick so God damn much that it couldn't wait until between takes?" My voice escalated into a roar. My head was throbbing and my face felt like it was burning. I took a step and the world swam dangerously in my eyes. I took another step and the world began to spin like a child's top.

I felt myself reeling backwards and the last thing I heard before I passed out was Paul's voice calling my name. I realized then that I was in love with James Paul McCartney, the best friend that I'd ever had.

**A/N: And that's how John fell for Paul! Review? :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Here's chapter 3 of Life is What Happens!**

**Paul's POV**

John took a step toward George, and then he crumpled to the floor in an unconscious heap. I picked my way across the crowded studio as fast as I could to reach him. He had hit his head on his chair on the way down and there was a small cut above his left eyebrow. Brian and George Martin came running in.

"What happened to him?" Brian demanded as we all knelt around John.

"When George knocked his guitar against his mic, John got really ticked off, but then he passed out," I said, struggling not to show that I was nearly going out of my head with worry.

"I saw _that,_ do you know _why _he fainted?" Mr. Martin (it was too confusing to call him George as well) said.

"He didn't eat any breakfast this morning," said Ringo quietly. The rest of us nodded in affirmation.

"And he looked like he felt like shite when he woke up," I added. Brian stood up and made his way out of the studio.

"I'm going to call the hospital, he hit his head pretty hard," Brian called over his shoulder, going into the booth. I swallowed down a rush of hysteria. _Just because he goes to the hospital doesn't mean he's going to die,_ I told myself over and over again. It wasn't helping any, I still felt like I was going to jump right out of my skin with nerves.

"Help me move him," I motioned to George. He silently nodded and got a hold on John's feet. I lifted him at his armpits and even though he was unconscious, I still got a wave of goosebumps over my skin where our skin touched. We gently moved him over so he lay flat on the floor. There was nothing else we could do now but wait.

_Please, John, just be okay, _I thought over and over. I sat down in my usual seat and drummed my fingers on the wall. I didn't even notice that I was doing it until Ringo came over and pulled my hand off the wall and folded it in my lap.

"Mate, you're making the rest of us even more nervous," he said, running a hand through his hair. I nodded silently and he rested a hand on my shoulder before moving away. Ringo, ever the bringer of calm to the group. If Ringo wasn't there, sometimes I think we would tear each other's throats out in our rare arguments.

Brian got off the phone and came back into the room. "They're sending someone out to come look at him," he said, sitting down and putting his head in his hands. I knew for a fact that the four of us were going to make Brian go gray before his time, but I also was sure that he cared a lot about all of us. It was silent in the room until the paramedic arrived.

Mr. Martin got up to let her in. She looked a bit ruffled. "I nearly got mauled by a bunch of girls out there," she informed us as we gave her room next to John. I made an apologetic face at her. She put her hand on John's forehead. "He's burning up," she said, getting out her stethoscope and listening to him breathe for a moment. I so desperately wished I was that stethoscope right then. She opened one of his eyes with her finger and examined his pupil.

"I'm going to try to bring him around. It looks like he may have a slight concussion, but I can't know for sure unless he's conscious," she said, holding a cotton ball soaked with rubbing alcohol under his nose.

John's nose twitched and he woke up immediately. "God, what the hell _is _that?" he yelped, trying to scoot backwards and failing. George caught him and made him lay still.

"You passed out, John," George told him. John made a weak attempt at his signature sarcastic look.

"Kinda got that one figured, Harrison," he said. George rolled his eyes, but looked somewhat relieved. At least John was well enough to be sarcastic. That had to be a good thing.

The nurse aimed a tiny flashlight at John's eyes, making him squirm away. "What are you doing, woman? Trying to blind me?" She sighed impatiently and grabbed his chin so she could get a better look. "You're not a bad looking bird," he said weakly. I felt an irrational surge of jealousy. The paramedic rolled her eyes and looked up at the rest of us.

"Well he does have a slight concussion, but judging by his levels of sarcasm, I think he's going to be okay. However," she added. "I do think that he should come to the hospital for overnight observation. You told me he was sick, correct?" We nodded silently.

The paramedic went to the door and called out for two other paramedics to come in. They came in with a stretcher. John eyed it warily, but allowed himself to be lifted onto it. He was too weak to protest.

"Can I go with?" I asked. The paramedic beckoned to me, and I took it as a yes. I followed them out to the ambulance and climbed in. John had closed his eyes again.

"Make sure he doesn't fall asleep again," the paramedics instructed me. I didn't ask why. I knew that he might not wake up if he went back to sleep, small concussion or not. I went over to John and shook his arm.

"What, Macca?" he asked, looking quite sleepy.

"You can't go to sleep yet, John." I said, peering anxiously at him.

"Why not?" John questioned irately, sounding like an obstinate child.

"Because you have a concussion and, well," I didn't want to say it out loud. He seemed to catch onto what I was saying, because he made a concentrated effort not to let his eyelids droop even a little bit.

When we arrived at the hospital, I was left behind as they brought John in with the instructions to go to the waiting room, which they had cleared of people to avoid a stampede. I wandered in and sat down in a chair and pulled out the pocket-sized notebook that I always carried around. And of course, I also had a pencil in my pocket. I never went anywhere without them, just in case an idea for a song sprung into my mind. This time, though, there was no song in my head. Just some rather pressing thoughts that I needed to unload. I flipped to a clean page and began to write.

_This is going to sound so weird, and I don't even know why I'm writing it in a journal, but here I go. I think I'm in love with John. No, that's a lie. I _know_ I'm in love with John. Yeah, he's my best friend, and yeah, he's a guy. I know that. _

_ I thought we were just really good friends for the longest time. Half the time, we don't even have to say a word, we know what the other is thinking. When we're writing a song, it's really helpful, but when one of us has a thought we'd rather keep private it's downright irritating. _

_ But then, I started noticing little things about him. Like the way his soft, reddish-brown hair fell in his eyes or the little flicking motion he'd do with his head to move said hair. I'd notice his sparkling, light brown eyes that were almost always guarded and shut off, unless he was playing the guitar. Then, they held every single secret he'd ever had inside his mind. Most people don't know that there's a softer side of John Lennon. They see the tough guy who'll say anything to anyone and not give it a fuck about it. They see the Teddy Boy who'll punch your lights out if you look at him the wrong way. They see a funny guy who loves to make a joke, even if it's at the expense of someone else. I see all of that too, but I see so much more. _

_ I'll tell you what I see. I see a man who won't show the world his true colors because he's so afraid that they'll laugh and turn away. A man who won't let hardly anybody into his heart because he's terrified that they'll hurt him by up and leaving without a goodbye. I see a man who's lost a lot of people he was close to. I see a man who is desperate for love, but is scared to death of looking too hard, worried about what he might find. _

_ I'm just so _confused_ though. What if he doesn't feel the same way? I don't want to deal with being rejected by my best friend. It would kill the band. And what if he does feel the same way? Would he—_

A nurse came into the waiting room, and following behind her were George, Ringo, and Brian. I paused in my writing and tucked the notebook back in my pocket.

"The nurse says we can see John, now," Ringo said. "She says he's fine, but he's got the flu pretty bad. The concussion isn't leaving any lasting damage, just a killer headache." My heart just about exploded out of relief. I got up and followed them and the nurse to John's room.

The nurse showed inside and left. John was sleeping peacefully, a strand of hair swooping gracefully across his forehead. We sat down for awhile, not saying anything. Then Ringo spoke up.

"I'm right starving. Does anyone else wanna come get some food with me?" None of us wanted to leave John's side, but we didn't want Ringo to go alone and risk a mobbing either. As we left, Brian scribbled a note on a small piece of paper explaining to John where we'd gone should he wake up, and we left the room. I was so preoccupied with my thoughts that I didn't notice something of great importance fall out of my pocket and land on the chair next to John's bed.

**John's POV**

Slowly, I came to. My head ached like mad and I still felt terrible. It took me a minute to realize where I was, the hospital. Fuzzy recollections reminded me that I'd passed out during our recording session and hit my head. I think I heard one of the nurses say something about a bad case of the flu. Just wonderful.

I flopped my head back on the pillows, but something in the chair next to me caught my eye. It was Paul's little notebook that he carried everywhere, George swore he even brought it to bed with him. He never let anyone else read it, and was fiercely protective of the little thing. My inner mischief-maker decided to take a peek at it, maybe get an idea of the kind of songs Paul was writing so I could one-up him.

I sat up and leaned over to grab it. I allowed it to fall open to a random page in the middle and started reading. It wasn't song lyrics that greeted me, though. It was a diary entry of sorts. One particular sentence made me stop dead. _"I _know _I'm in love with John." _It shocked me to my very core. Paul was in love with me? This bombshell fueled my curiosity and I kept reading. I was shocked; Paul saw all of _that _in me? The most disconcerting thing about it was it was probably true. The comment about my eyes was at least mildly flattering.

So it wasn't a one-sided thing. I opened and closed my mouth several times like a fish. Paul chose this moment to come back into the room.

"Hi, John," he said, swallowing a bite of a sandwich. "Sorry we cut out on you like that, but Ringo's stomach wasn't in the mood for waiting about. Suddenly, he seemed to notice that something was missing from his back pocket. He patted it and looked around the room wildly.

"You haven't seen a little notebook about this big, have you?" he asked, making a hand gesture.

"Does it look anything like this?" I held the object up. He blanched and snatched it out of my hand.

"You didn't read any of it, did you?" he asked quickly, flipping through it as though he could detect signs of intrusion. I gestured for him to come closer. I sat up and did something that I would never have dreamed of doing: I kissed him square on the lips. He stiffened in surprise a little and I started to pull away, thinking it had all been a huge mistake. But then, I felt his lips back on mine again, kissing me tenderly.

After a moment, we pulled away. "Does that answer your question?" I asked, a hint of a smile on my lips.

**A/N: Review? :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello, dear readers! Enjoy!**

******Paul's POV**

_"Does that answer your question?" _

I touched my lips in astonishment. Had John Winston Lennon really just kissed me? And, more to the point, did I just kiss him back? It took me a moment to actually come to terms with what had just transpired between the two of us. I came to the conclusion that it wasn't a bad thing.

"I'm so-" John said, looking extremely embarrassed and nervous, both quite atypical emotions for him. He seemed to be trying to apologize, so I stopped his mouth with another kiss.

"Don't be," I murmured against his lips. "Don't be sorry. You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that." I felt him smile, but then he stiffened with sudden realization.

"What if I'm still contagious?" he asked, worry in his eyes. No one ever _wants _to get the flu, but if I had to get it, there was no other person I'd rather get it from.

I pulled away. "I dunno, I get the flu, I guess." I shrugged, unbothered. Footsteps coming toward the door made me spring away from John's side and sit in the chair in the opposite corner of the room. It was as good as illegal to be, well, the only word for that I could think of was _queer,_ in England. I hadn't the faintest inkling how it was in the rest of the world, but it certainly got you nowhere in life here.

Brian, George, and Ringo came through the door. "How are you feeling, mate?" Ringo asked John concernedly. John grinned brightly and wiggled his fingers at Ringo.

"Never better!" he said. Ringo raised his eyebrows at him. "Okay, I feel like bloody hell, but for God's sake stop fussing over me!" Ringo backed off hurriedly with a mumbled apology.

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Christ, I'm sorry Rings. I dunno what's wrong with me." Ringo patted John's shoulder and we sat down again for awhile.

After about a half an hour of idle chitchat, Brian spoke up. "Boys, I think we should leave John alone to rest for awhile."

"Aw, Eppy, do you _have _to go?" John whined, showing that he was feeling at least marginally better. "You're not bothering me any."

"Yeah, can we stay, Brian?" we begged. "Please, please, please, please, please..." we chanted, knowing it would annoy Brian to no end. And we were right.

"...ugh! Fine!" Brian exclaimed after much hemming, hawwing, and grinding of the teeth.

"Thanks, Eppy!" we chorused, cheeky grins all around. "You're the best!" Brian merely _harrumphed_ and went out the door covering up a small smile.

"So..." George said, stretching out on the thin couch that was much too small for his lanky form. "Now what?"

For the next few hours, we sat around and talked, mostly about music and the different pros and cons of different instruments. We were rising on a tidal wave of fame, and thusly had much more money than we were used to absolutely _burning _a hole in our pockets. At times the discussion would get quite heated and a nurse would pop her head in to admonish us for being too loud. As soon as she would leave John would pull an obscene face at the door. Thankfully, the nurse was always out of eyeshot when this occurred.

I couldn't help but allow my eyes to keep straying to John's face. I wasn't alone in this, as I felt John's eyes on me from time to time. When he was sure no one was looking, he'd sneak me a wink or a secret look. I couldn't believe my reaction each time. I was blushing like a schoolboy trying to ask a girl to a dance for the first time! He noticed this and quirked an eyebrow at me, a silent question in his eyes. I shrugged. It still amazed me that we could have a nearly completely nonverbal conversation.

"Uh... guys?" George interjected. "You're doing it again." We froze, _we'd _only come to terms with it a few hours ago, how could he possibly know?

"Doing what?" I asked, fiddling with the bottom of my shirt discreetly.

"Having a conversation without actually having a conversation," he replied, frowning after he said it as he realized that it probably had made more sense in his head. Ringo blinked, attempting to make sense of George's comment.

"Sorry?" John asked, a hint of a smirk tugging at the left corner of his mouth. George was spared from having to explain his previous statement when a nurse came in to check on John.

"Well, Mr. Lennon, how are you feeling?" she asked briskly and I was thankful that she wasn't screaming and jumping up and down. It was a welcome change.

"Can't complain, can't complain," he replied airily, but I could tell his head was still killing him. "How about you? Are you comfortable?" She looked confused. "Tell me, is this your first flight?" She rolled her eyes while suppressing a smile—apparently smiling was "unprofessional"—and finished checking the obviously bored Beatle over.

"It looks like you're doing a bit better, but we're going to have to keep you here overnight for observation yet." John immediately put on a pouty face.

"Aw, do I have to?" he asked childishly. I'm sure he would have crossed his arms in a huff if it weren't for the needles sticking out of his arms.

"Yes, you have to," she said firmly and I got a no-nonsense vibe from her. "And visiting hours end in ten minutes," she added, giving us all a stern look. "And I _expect _that you'll all be leaving before they're up. _No _you may not stay here overnight," she overrode any protests that we were going to have.

Defeated, we agreed that yes, we would leave as soon as she left and she did just that.

"Looks like we'll have to leave," I sighed. Ringo and George said goodbye to John and waited for me to follow. "I'll be out in a second," I said, waving them on. "Wait in the waiting room for me, yeah?"

"Don't be too long, Paul," said Ringo. "You wouldn't want crazy-nurse-lady to come and go crackers on you!" I nodded and waited until they were out of the room to move over to the side of John's bed.

He looked up at me with weary eyes. "I'll be all right, Paul. I'm just so bloody knackered right now I can't see straight." I planted a feather-light kiss on his still-feverish forehead and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

"We'll call tomorrow morning, okay?" I said kissing him again, this time on the lips.

"Bye, Paulie," he said softly, settling back on the thin hospital pillows. I managed to tear myself out of the room with some difficulty. I wanted to stay right there with him.

Ringo and George were standing in the waiting room somewhat awkwardly, keeping their eyes trained on the ground lest someone recognize them as half the Beatles and stampede them. I approached them and we carefully made our way out the door, heads bent forward as though a strong wind was blowing.

We _almost _made it home walking, a rare feat in itself, but then a shrill shriek alerted us to the presence of one of our more hard-core fans. "_Look! _It's the _BEATLES!_" There was barely enough time to exchange an eye roll that said, "Here we go again!" before we were sprinting full tilt down the street in a mad attempt to keep ahead of the hysterical girls.

Unfortunately, a horde of shrieking girls appeared from the _other_ side of the street that we were running on. Now we were fenced in on both sides. Normally, I would have considered it extremely rude to go crashing through the yards of people we didn't know but as the saying goes, desperate times call for desperate measures. I made a little hand motion, we veered sharply to the left, and ran through the backyards of central Liverpool. It confused the girls long enough for us to build up a bit of a lead.

Completely out of breath, we skidded to a stop in front of our house and stood there for a moment to recapture the ability to breathe normally. When we could finally walk inside, George and Ringo headed to the refrigerator to get something to eat. It had been an eternity since lunch and I was starving as well. Thankfully, there was enough food to feed even George's appetite. And what an appetite it was.

After we finished eating, Ringo yawned so hugely that his eyes watered. "I think that may be the sign that we all need to go to bed," I said with a grin directed at the drummer who was now rubbing the yawn-induced tears out of his eyes.

"Yeah, I think that's a g-g-good id-" Ringo couldn't finish his sentence as another monstrous yawn made itself heard.

I shuffled upstairs, pulled my pajamas on, and collapsed into bed. Today had been an emotionally draining day. What with our best friend going to the hospital and then my figuring out that I was in love with said best friend and he was in love with me. No, definitely not your average day. I quickly fell into a deep sleep. One song kept running through my head as I slept.

_Oh yeah I'll tell you something, _

_I think you'll understand._

_When I say that something's..._

_I want to hold your hand._

That deep sleep was interrupted however, when I woke up and dashed to the bathroom to promptly empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet. A pair of feet came stumbling into the bathroom after me.

"Paul, are you—_oh._" George hastily retreated several steps upon seeing my condition. He flinched as I retched again. "I'll go get you some aspirin or something," he said, going in the direction of the bathroom. It seemed as though John wasn't the only one with the flu now. I pulled myself upright and gargled some mouthwash to try and get the foul taste of vomit out of my mouth.

George returned with a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water. "Thanks Georgie," I said, gulping a pill down with a mouthful of water.

"Not a problem," he said, helping me get back to bed. "I suppose this means that we don't have a recording session tomorrow, what with half of our band missing?"

I managed a weak chuckle as I crawled under the covers again and he exited my room. "Goodnight Paul," George whispered.

"'Night Geo," I mumbled before I fell back into a fevered sleep with strange dreams. Somehow, John managed to be in every single one.

**A/N: So, what did you think? Please let me know! Review and you get a virtual cookie :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I give you... chapter 5! If memory serves me correctly, this is the last chapter that I posted on FF before I took the story down... I think. So from now on (if I'm right) the chapters will be entirely new to those of you who did not follow the story on TheCrazyViolist's forum.**

**John's POV**

After a night of somewhat deep sleep, or as deep a sleep you can get in an uncomfortable hospital bed, I woke up. My guess was that the flu I had was of the 24-hour persuasion, because I felt a lot better. I stretched as best I could in the little bed and sat up. As if right on cue, a nurse hurried in, stethoscope hanging from her neck.

"Good morning, Mr. Lennon. How are we feeling?" she asked, pressing the icy instrument to my chest and making me gasp in surprise. Ordinarily, I would start flirting mercilessly with this pretty young nurse. But today, I didn't.

"I'm feeling alright," I said, still blinking the sleep out of my eyes. "And how are you feeling?" I asked. She looked a bit thrown off by the question.

"I'm just fine," she replied. "Looks like your bug was only the 24-hour kind, and the doctor has okayed your head, so you're free to go once I get you signed out." I sighed with relief. Not only did hospitals somewhat freak me out, they were _really_ boring.

She pulled the IV out of my arm, making me flinch and turn my head, and pulled off all the tape holding the tubes in place. The tape took off a lot of arm hair, which was not altogether a pleasant sensation. Once she finished, she made a grand gesture with her hand as though to say, _you're free to go._

I snapped a clean salute. "Thank you, ma'am!" She raised her eyebrows, but refrained from comment and left the room hiding a smile.

Even though there was a curtain shielding me from the doorway, something just didn't feel right about changing in the middle of the room where someone could accidentally walk in on me. So, I took my clothes with me into the bathroom. That way I could both freshen up and put my clothes on without fear of an unwelcome intrusion. I was still a bit weak from my head injury and lack of food due to illness, and I was a bit slower than I would like. It was frustrating to have a bottle of shampoo be heavy in my hands. Eventually, though, I got myself presentable and left my hospital room of doom to go check out. Needless to say, I got stared at. A _lot. _Thankfully, people had enough respect for the hospital and the sick patrons not to go stampeding down the hallways after me screaming hysterically. Thank God for small miracles.

"Good to see you feeling better, Mr. Lennon," the desk clerk said in a chipper voice after signing me out. I merely wiggled my fingers in a halfhearted wave and walked out the door. Being a Beatle meant never having to hail a cab if you were walking; any available ones immediately pulled up next to you in a long line so that you could have your pick of anywhere from a half-dozen to a dozen little yellow cars that all looked the same. I slid into the nearest available one and gave them the order to take me to the studio where I supposed that the rest of the group was.

But when I got there, the windows were dark, there were no throngs of girls swarming the place, and the doors were locked. A note on the door caught my attention:

_John: Paul's sick today and we figured you wouldn't be up to a recording session either. _

_~Brian_

I groaned guiltily. Less than 24 hours after confessing some long-hidden emotions for my—well, at that moment I didn't know exactly _what _to call him—I'd gotten him sick. _Oh God, Paul. I'm sorry. So sorry._ Thankfully, the cab driver decided to wait for me as he watched me examine the door and I ran back down and threw myself into the backseat.

"Where to, Mr. Lennon?" he asked, seemingly unable to believe his good fortune. He, an ordinary cab driver, got to drive _the _John Lennon around _twice._

I gave him instructions to drop me off about a block from where we lived, no sense in allowing any _more _people to know where we lived. When he pulled up, I got out, waited for him to pull away, and went as fast as my legs would carry me in the direction of my shared home. My heart was nearly beating right out of my chest as though it was desperate to make it back to the house before I did. I arrived at the door somewhat out of breath, and when Ringo answered the door he looked somewhat surprised.

"Hey, John! Welcome back... trouble with the fans again?" That was apparently the conclusion he took from my breathless state.

"Uh-huh, sure," I said absentmindedly, my thoughts in another room of the house entirely. "Listen, I went to the studio before I came here and I saw Brian's note. How's Paul doing?"

Ringo winced in sympathy. "Sorry about that, mate. The hospital's phone line was busy whenever we tried to put a call through to you. I think he's asleep right now. You can go check on him if you'd like, though." I was already heading up the stairs before the last word had cleared Ringo's lips.

The door to Paul's room was shut and when I opened it, the curtains were drawn. Paul was sprawled across the bed, his hair matted against his forehead in sticky clumps, the blankets tangled up around his legs, and his pajamas rumpled and wrinkled. I crossed the room to his side, but I tripped over his guitar case and it made a loud thunking noise. I cringed as Paul immediately began to stir. He opened his eyes blearily.

"Johnny?" he croaked and my heart fluttered in my chest at the use of my nickname. "That you?" I knelt next to his bed.

"It's me, Paulie," I whispered, stroking his sweaty hair out of his eyes. A tiny smile touched his lips and he reached up to take my hand in his.

"If you're worrying about getting me sick, and knowing you, you are, it's okay," he assured me. "I don't mind." I rubbed the back of his hand in slow circles with my thumb. I leaned down to softly kiss his lips, but his hand came up to stop me. "D'you _want _to get sick again?" he asked. I settled for kissing his forehead instead. He was burning up.

"Your forehead is really hot," I told him. "D'you want me to go get you a glass of water or something?" He nodded and my stomach clenched as I saw how weak he was.

I went downstairs to hunt down a glass of water and a cool ice pack. George was flopped on the couch with his guitar in his hands. "Hey, John. Good to see you feeling better again," he said, laying down the guitar and coming over to me. "I see you're taking care of Paul?" he asked. I nodded, filling up the glass. "Just don't get sick again, yeah?" He patted my shoulder and sauntered away.

Paul was attempting to sit up when I reentered his room. "Hey, hey!" I said, setting down the ice pack and water. "Don't do that, you're gonna make yourself sicker!" He looked at me with glazed eyes that made my heart take a sad drop.

"But I'm so _bored, _John," he whispered. "I'm gonna go mad if I don't do something!" I handed him the water and once he finished I set it on the night table and gently pressed him back down on the bed, applying the cool ice. He accepted it without much complaint, he was tired and sore.

"I can sing, if you want me to," I offered, noting that my guitar still sat in the corner of his room. He nodded his head, succumbing to his exhaustion at last. I retrieved my guitar and sat on the end of his bed.

_Oh yeah, I'll tell you something_

_I think you'll understand_

_When I say that something_

_I wanna hold your hand_

_I wanna hold your hand_

_I wanna hold your hand_

Paul had already started to drift off to the land of dreams by the time I had finished the first verse. I couldn't say I blamed him. Being sick took an awful toll on a person.

_Oh, please, say to me_

_You'll let me be your man_

_and please, say to me_

_You'll let me hold your hand_

_Now let me hold your hand_

_I wanna hold your hand_

_And when I touch you I feel happy, inside_

_It's such a feeling_

_That my love_

_I can't hide_

_I can't hide_

_I can't hide_

_Yeah you, got that something_

_I think you'll understand_

_When I say that something_

_I wanna hold your hand_

_I wanna hold your hand_

_I wanna hold your hand_

_And when I touch you I feel happy, inside_

_It's such a feeling_

_That my love_

_I can't hide_

_I can't hide_

_I can't hide_

_Yeah you, got that something_

_I think you'll understand_

_When I say that something_

_I wanna hold your hand_

_I wanna hold your hand_

_I wanna hold your hand_

_I wanna hold your ha-a-a-a-a-a-and_

Paul's hazel eyes were shut now and he was sleeping soundly. I couldn't believe it. I was crazy about the man who was also my best friend and he was crazy about me. You just couldn't get much luckier than that.

**A/N: Fin! This was actually one of my favorite chapters to write. Did you like it? I hope so!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Yup, I was right! This is a new chappie to FF! :)**

**John's POV**

Paul's illness had gone on far longer than mine had, halting our productivity in the studio entirely and confining us to the house. Now he was finally almost back to the normal Paul everyone knew. I had something that I wanted to ask him, and it frustrated me that I was so nervous about it. Why couldn't I just do it?

So far, we'd managed to keep our newfound feelings for each other a secret from Ringo and George. There were times when I suspected that they knew, but they were so few and far in between that I was sure that it was just me being paranoid.

"Hey, Paul?" I asked casually.

"Yeah, John?" he replied, coming over to me from where he was sitting on the couch reading. I discreetly tapped the palm of his hand, our signal for, _I want to talk to you about something that I don't want the others to hear. _

"I think I've got another song idea," I said, which was somewhat true. There was a bit of a song tumbling about in my head, but it wasn't at the stage where I wanted to show it to even Paul yet.

"Okay, we can go up to my room," Paul said, trotting up the stairs with me close behind him. Once we arrived in his room, I shut the door carefully and turned back to Paul. His hazel eyes glowed softly. I ran my fingers gently across his cheek and pulled him close to me by the waist until our bodies were flush against each other.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," I murmured in his ear. He laughed quietly and played with the hair at the nape of my neck, his calloused fingers feathering across my skin.

"Is this in the best interest of the band, or for your own selfish benefit?" he questioned, planting tiny kisses on my ear. I took his face in my hands so that our noses were just barely touching.

"Well, it's been a little annoying to not be able to go to the studio, but I'm a selfish bloke, what can I say?" I whispered, pressing my lips against his and kissing him gently. "I haven't been able to do _this _for _days_." My lips moved down his jaw and his neck. "Or this, or this, or this."

Paul chuckled, his hands moving down so that they massaged my shoulders tantalizingly. "You, John Lennon, are _shameless_," he kissed my cheek. "It's a good thing I like you." He brought my face back up to his and kissed me hard. I responded instantly, wrapping my arms around his waist and kissing back with enthusiasm. I loved kissing Paul; his kisses were playful, yet intense, and his lips seemed to fit the contours of mine perfectly. His arms came up around my neck and his fingers worked themselves through my hair, massaging my scalp in a way that made me go crazy.

We backed up several steps and ended up falling onto the bed, still kissing and still entwined. My fingertips brushed against the top few buttons of his shirt, aching to unbutton them and feel the smooth, alabaster skin that lay beneath the thin fabric.

"John," Paul moaned, stopping my fingers.

"What?" I breathed, pulling away a bit to gaze down at him. His normally immaculate hair was ruffled and messy, his clothes were rumpled, there was a blush high in his cheeks, and his breathing was ragged.

"You wanted to ask me something, and I'm going to forget that you wanted to if this goes on much longer," he said. I rolled to the side so that we were still embracing, but in a less distracting manner.

"Spoilsport," I pouted. "I was just wondering, um, if you'd, er, like to go to Blackpool for lunch and maybe go to the carnival after?" Well, John. That was smooth. I was stuttering like a teenager!

"Well, um, er," he teased me, tracing a line down the bridge of my nose with his finger. "I think that'd be fun, John. Might I ask the occasion?"

"We haven't celebrated the fact that you're no longer puking every five minutes," I suggested.

"Why John, are you asking me on a _date?_" he gasped in mock-theatricality. "Oh, be still my beating heart!" He fanned his face with an impish smirk.

"Sod off, you're making this harder than it needs to be!" I growled, tickling his neck. He immediately ducked his chin to make it hard to get to. I started tickling his sides. He squirmed under my grasp, laughing.

"All right Johnny, I'm sorry for teasing you, now _stoppit!_" He gasped through his laughter. "You're gonna kill me!"

"Ooh, death by tickling, how positively _awful,_" I quipped, grinning. "But I accept your apology, no matter how hard it was to decipher." I kissed his cheek gently.

"You haven't answered, y'know," I pointed out as he snuggled into me, his face in the hollow where my neck and shoulder met. I wrapped my arms around his torso, breathing in the scent that was easily defined as Paul. A mix of cigarettes, shampoo, cologne, and aftershave always lingered about him in an intoxicating combination.

"Let me see here," he tapped his chin and made a pensive expression and continued doing so until I attacked his face with kisses.

"You won't leave this room until I get an answer," I informed him in between kisses.

"The answer is yes, you big goon!" He managed to say through his giggling. I stopped my deluge of kisses and got up from the bed, looking at my rumpled up clothes. Paul seemed to notice his own mussed state and turned a bright shade of red.

"I'm thinking we're going to have to change before we go downstairs again," I noted the way my pants were wrinkled like I'd slept in them. I walked into my room to change into a shirt and pair of pants that looked similar enough to fool George and Ringo.

Being the don't-think-things-through person that I was, I barged right into Paul's room without knocking and found only half dressed. And the half that had clothes on it was the upper half. I whirled around with my hands over my eyes for more his sake than mine, a hot blush turning my face and ears an impressive shade of crimson. "Christ, I'm sorry Paul," I muttered, wanting to die on the spot. Paul made no comment until he was dressed.

"S'okay," he waved it off, slightly pink in the face. "Should've locked the door." We stood in his room awkwardly until I cleared my throat.

"We should probably get moving if we want to get to Blackpool, yeah?" Paul nodded, combing his fingers through his hair to make sure there weren't any hairs out of place at all. I laughed at his meticulousness.

**Paul's POV**

We went back downstairs and, surprise surprise, George was digging through the refrigerator in search of lunch. "Hi, Geo," I greeted him. He pulled his head out of the refrigerator and greeted me.

"Hey, Paul," he said, pulling some leftovers from the night before out of the fridge. "D'you guys want some?" John shook his head.

"Thanks for the offer, but I think we'll decline, Georgie," said John. "We're going to the studio to meet with George M. to fine tune some of the songs we did the last time we were in the studio," he lied smoothly.

"Oh, okay then," George said, his attention focused on putting some food on a plate.

We scampered out the door and made for the nearest bus station. "Leaving for Blackpool!" a driver shouted.

"Wait, wait!" we sprinted in the direction of the bus. It stopped to let us on. We paid our fare and scouted out a pair of seats. I found some near the back and we sat down.

John reached for my hand, but I pulled it away. "John, don't," I whispered into his ear.

He looked hurt. "Why not?" he asked.

I gestured around to the other people on the bus. "D'you think they'd be okay with _us_ doing_ that_?" I asked.

"Point taken," John sighed in frustration. We had a fabulous time in Blackpool, eating fish and chips until our belts needed to be loosened and cursing discreetly at the rigged games that ate our money.

"Damn it, I _almost_ got that teddy bear!" John huffed, crossing his arms like a child. I laughed and paid for another round.

"My turn," I said, picking up the tennis ball and eyeing up the bowling pins that I needed to knock over.

"Paul..." John sang. I looked over at him and he crossed his eyes comically at me and puffed out his cheeks.

"Piss off you, you're wrecking my concentration!" I squinted at the pins and tossed the ball with a silent prayer flying behind it. Nine of the pins instantly collapsed, but the tenth one wavered, wavered... and then fell. I cheered, doing a little dance as I accepted the teddy bear from the carnival worker who gave me a funny look.

It was starting to get dark. "John, I think we should probably go back," I said, looking at the stars that were starting to wink down at us.

"Probably, but I wanna ride the ferris wheel at least once," John stated, dragging me by the forearm over to the ride. Due to the late hour, the line was short and it didn't take long to get on.

As soon as the ride was going up, John casually draped an arm across the seat behind me and I cuddled up next to him, taking his free hand in mine and examining it.

"John?" I asked, looking at the profile of his face. He turned and planted a soft kiss on my lips. Ordinarily, I would have protested against this public display of affection, but the ride was stopped and we were on the top so no one could see us.

"Yeah?" he replied, rubbing my back with the hand that was across the seat.

"How long do you think we'll, y'know, last?" I wondered.

"As long as we live," he promised, kissing me slowly. The ride started moving again and we pulled away from each other.

"But John... what about Cyn and Julian?" I asked, a sense of panic rising up in me. "And Jane?"

"Don't worry. We'll think about that later," he reassured me.

On the bus ride back, I kept dozing off against the window. "Paul," John shook my shoulder. "We're back, wake up."

"Mmph? I wasn't sleeping!" I protested. He gave me a look. "Well, I wasn't! I was just... resting my eyes!"

John rolled his eyes and poked my arm. "Sure you were. C'mon, Ringo and George are bound to be wondering where we are." We walked home at a fast pace, hoping to avoid any and all fans and reporters. Once, John thought he heard the snap of a camera when we were nearly holding hands, but when we looked around there was no one to be found.

"You're a little late, aren't you?" Ringo asked when we finally came through the door. John innocently shrugged.

"George M. had some stuff that he wanted done tonight and didn't want to put it off any longer, and it took a little more time than expected," I explained.

"Alright, then," George said, yawning and heading upstairs. "I'm bloody exhausted, g'night all." Ringo soon followed suit. We waited until they were safely upstairs before we said goodnight.

"Goodnight, Paul," John whispered, kissing me tenderly. "See you tomorrow." I kissed him back and headed upstairs where I promptly fell into bed after putting my pajamas on and was asleep within seconds. When I got up the next morning, John was sitting at the table, staring at the newspaper with a mortified expression on his face.

"What is it?" I asked, a feeling of suspicion gnawing at my stomach. He turned a pale and scared face to me.

"Remember how I thought I heard a camera last night, but then we decided it was nothing?" He spread the newspaper in front of me and my vision tunneled until all I could see was the grainy photograph and the headline screaming at me:

**JOHN LENNON AND PAUL MCCARTNEY... LOVERS?**

**A/N: Bum bum BBUUUUUUMMMMM! **

**Review! :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Paul's POV**

I just kept staring at the newspaper in front of me. How had they guessed? We weren't even holding hands in the picture, almost, but it just looked like two people walking close together.

"John," I whispered hoarsely. "What are we gonna do?"

"I... I don't know," he admitted, shaking his head. I flipped the newspaper over so we wouldn't have to look at the offending headline.

"What are we whispering about?" Ringo popped his head between the two of us. "Secrets secrets are no fun unless you share with everyone!" he sang, flipping the newspaper back over, ignoring our protests. He stopped dead. "What the-" he cried, scanning the story.

_"We all know that Paul McCartney and John Lennon are in the same band, write hit songs, and on top of all that are great friends. But are they more than that?_

_"They were seen walking to their shared home late last night after yet another busy day in the studio and though our photographer was not at a close enough proximity to be able to tell for sure, it looks as though the two were holding hands._

_"Both of the men have a woman in their lives, and in the case of John the woman is his wife and they have a child together. Paul is currently going steady with his actress girlfriend, Jane Asher. But are these women merely clever a clever ploy to keep their own romance a secret?_

_"We'd like to know your opinion! Write a letter to the editor or call us at 246-8102. We'll feature your opinions in our next edition."_

Ringo stared at the article in shock before breaking into a stunned kind of laugh. "What a load of shit!" he said. "What'll they think of next?"

We looked at each other nervously before laughing along. "Yeah, it is isn't it?" John chuckled weakly, twisting his hands under the table.

"The newspapers are really desperate to keep us on the front page, aren't they?" I asked feebly.

"Well, this is gonna make Brian's day," Ringo said. "He's gonna have to organize a press conference to get this cleaned up." I froze. I hadn't thought of that. John could bluff his way through pretty much anything, as was evidence by many frustrating poker games, but I was a terrible liar. Everything always showed plainly on my face.

George sauntered into the kitchen. "Good morning..." he trailed off. "What's up with you guys? You look like you've seen a ghost!" We wordlessly shoved the paper at him. The smile slid off his face like butter in a hot pan. "Let's go to the studio," he suggested. "Brian's probably already there and he'll want to deal with this as soon as possible." We ate breakfast quickly and leapt into the car to drive over to the studio. Thoughts tumbled through my head at an alarming rate. How were we going to talk our way out of this one?

As soon as we got inside, John cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "EPPY!" Brian came skidding around the corner roughly five seconds later.

"What?" he huffed, trying to regain his breath. "Are the fans breaking in?" His eyes were wild.

I shook my head no and Brian sagged with relief. "We've got the latest copy of the paper," I said, holding it out to him. He took it, looking incredulous.

"You scared me out of my bloody mind to give me the... give me the..." he trailed off, having just read the headline. His eyes scanned the article quickly and he paled with every word. "Bloody hell," he breathed, looking like a ghost.

"What are we gonna do, Eppy?" I demanded. "We've got to get this cleared up before it spreads any further!"

"All right, all right," he ran a hand through his hair in apparent exhaustion.

"I'll get a press conference set up. Depending entirely on the moods of the reporters I could get it set up today or next week." We gave him a look. "I don't control how the reporters act!" he protested. "Look, I'll do my best, go get decent and I'll call if I get something figured out."

The drive home was entirely silent. No one knew what exactly to say. My eyes strayed to John's face often, which was taut with worry. He tried to smile at me, but the muscles in his face wouldn't comply. When we got back to the house, I darted upstairs and went into my room. I closed the door and collapsed on the bed, hands over my eyes. I loved John with all my heart, but I wasn't sure if I could stand the strain of keeping it a secret or the stigma of being gay in a resolutely straight world.

**John's POV**

My head throbbed painfully as unanswerable, pressing questions flooded it. Paul was taking it just as badly as I was, maybe even worse. He had a tendency to blame himself for things that weren't his fault. I knew that he was going upstairs to his room to brood about this unforeseen bump in the road and I wasn't about to let him do it by himself.

I gently excused myself from the stiflingly silent sitting room and went up to Paul's room. The door was, predictably, closed. "Paulie?" I softly called, knocking.

"Go away," came his mumbled reply. I opened the door and saw him laying on his bed, a pillow over his face. In two paces I had crossed the room and sat down beside him.

"Paul, look at me," I whispered, pulling the pillow from his face. He rolled away from me, but I caught him and pulled him back to me. I laid down next to him and stretched out on my side so I could look down at his face. "It's only a big deal if you make it one, you know." I stroked his hair out of his eyes and kissed his forehead.

"I know," he sighed. "But I feel like what we're doing is wrong." He rubbed his eyes with his fists like a child and all of the vulnerability that he tried so hard to hide came crashing to the surface.

I wrapped my arms around him. "Don't ever think that, Paul," I whispered in his ear. He snuggled instinctively into my chest and I stroked his back comfortingly. "There's nothing wrong with us being in love. Nothing." We laid there for the longest time, holding each other and bracing ourselves for the inevitable press conference looming over our heads.

The phone suddenly shrilled, making us jump apart. I jumped from the bed and grabbed the phone, Paul watching anxiously. "Hello?" I asked.

"John?" Brian's voice came through the phone lines and I tensed, hoping he had good news.

"Brian? What's going on?" I asked tersely, clutching the phone tightly.

"I've managed to get a press conference scheduled for three hours from now. They want you there in two hours to do mic checks and the like." I sagged against the table in relief. We were going to get this cleared up. It was all going to be okay.

"Okay Brian, thanks." I hung up the phone and turned to Paul. He was sitting bolt upright, his eyes wide.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Brian's done it again. I don't know how he manages, but he's got a press conference scheduled for three hours from now. We've gotta go over there in two hours for mic checks and such." Paul deflated with relief. I pulled him into a tight hug and kissed his cheek.

I nearly fell down the steps in my haste to tell Ringo and George. "Whoa, mate!" Ringo laughed. "Where's the fire?" I laughed.

"Brian's managed to get a press conference under way," I explained. George grinned.

"Good old Eppy," he said appreciatively. "Now we can get this crap cleared up. When do we have to be there?" I filled them in on the details and then Paul came downstairs.

We sat around for awhile, jamming on our guitars and in Ringo's case the table until we had to start getting ready. The stupid suits that Brian made us wear in order to look "presentable" went on and we actually combed our hair for once.

Getting into the conference was pure hell. About a million people were crowded around the building and we had to struggle every inch of the way. Eventually, I stopped apologizing to the people I bumped into. There were far too many.

The mic checks were horrendous. No matter what they did, George's mic refused to work and he had to settle for sharing with Paul. Which was fine, since George instantly clammed up at the sight of a microphone, camera, or reporter.

"Paul, John! Are the rumors true about the two of you?"

"John, what does your wife think of all of this?"

"Paul, what does Jane think of it?"

"Ringo, George, what are your thoughts on the subject?"

The questions slammed against us in a frightening torrent, poking, prodding, and at times outright shoving.

"One at a time!" I bellowed. They instantly quieted and repeated their questions in a slightly more orderly fashion.

"The rumors are absolutely not true," Paul stated, nudging my ankle gently, hidden by the tablecloth.

"Absolutely not," I affirmed, nudging him in return. "And I don't believe that Cynthia knows yet, but I'm sure she thinks it's not true," I added.

"And Jane probably doesn't know anything of it either, but I'm sure she doesn't believe it," Paul said.

"I think it's a load of crap if you'll pardon my bluntness," Ringo said. "Paul and John are very good friends and nothing more. Their friendship is stronger than most, which probably helps them when they're writing music. But they love the women in their lives very much." My heart swelled with gratitude toward Ringo. He always knew just what to say and he always said it well.

"Yeah, they're probably some of the closest friends you'd ever meet, and also the best friends. I really don't think it extends any farther than that, though," George said, uttering the longest string of words that he had probably ever said in public.

The conference lasted for a little while longer, but I thought that it was far too long. At times the questions became so irrelevant that we sat and stared at them until someone asked another question.

The car ride back was as silent as the one there, but it was more of a relaxed and relieved kind of quiet. I wanted to cuddle with Paul for the rest of the night, but we decided to have a celebratory dinner in front of the telly.

"Well folks, looks like the Lennon and McCartney rumors were just that," a reporter told the camera. "At a press conference today, the boys sat down to answer some questions and laid to rest the theories that the two were more than friends." They showed some of the clips from our interview. I'd forgotten about some of our more cheeky comments and I laughed in surprise a few times.

"Ringo, did you really say that?" I asked after a particularly cheeky comment from the drummer. He shrugged, raising his eyebrows.

"I suppose so, unless they've found a rather excellent lookalike," he said.

That night, I waited until I was sure that everyone was asleep and then tiptoed into Paul's room. He was sitting up in his bed, fingering some bass chords in the air.

"Hey, Johnny," he whispered, moving over so the bed would accompany me as well.

"Still awake?" I murmured, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my chin on his shoulder. "You naughty boy."

He laughed quietly, twisting so that he could reach my lips for a gentle kiss. "That I am," he replied, nuzzling my cheek. "This is why I need you, to keep me out of trouble." We collapsed back on the bed and pulled the blanket over ourselves.

"Don't you have that a little backwards?" I questioned, pulling his back to my chest. "Aren't I the one always getting into trouble?" By then, Paul's breathing had slowed into a deep sleep and I followed his example.

One thought flashed through my head before I drifted off into the land of dreams: We had dodged this problem, but how long could we continue to keep our love a secret?


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I really meant to write this sooner, I really did. Sorry...**

**Paul's POV**

It had now been several months since John and I had fallen in love. Aside from the one media scare, we'd gone unnoticed. Not even Ringo or George noticed. I would've thought that at least George would've, with his keen perception. Jane had no idea and Cyn didn't know.

We were in France now, and the reception was pretty good. They didn't scream as much as English fans, that was for sure. But we couldn't tell if they didn't scream as much because they were listening or because they didn't like us. I really hoped it was the former of the two.

"Paulie," a soft voice touched my ear. I blinked sleepily, wincing as the sun burned my retinas.

"Yeah?" I yawned, stretching. John's unshaven face floated into focus. He leaned down and planted a soft kiss on my lips which I returned with equal care.

"Up and at 'em, sleepyhead, we've got a gig tonight." I groaned and rolled over, pulling the blankets over my head.

"The keyword in that sentence is 'tonight', John," I said, my voice muffled by the blankets. He tugged at them.

"I know, but we're going out to breakfast and everyone else is up and ready already," said John. "Don't make me tickle you, mister."

That was a sincere threat. I sat up, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. "There, I'm up. Happy now?"

"Not yet," he said, a playful gleam in his eyes. "I haven't gotten my morning kiss." I shook my head and he looked hurt.

"Your face is all..." my groggy brain looked for the right word. "Prickly. Shave and then I'll think about it."

John pulled a face. "I hate shaving, you know that," he whined. "I always nick meself."

"Too bad," I joked. "Use more shaving cream, yes?" John pranced away, mimicking me childishly. I chuckled.

"Immature sod," I muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

"I heard that!" John's indignant voice floated out of the bathroom. A few minutes later, his obnoxious humming and nonsensical singing echoed and reverberated off the walls. It was soon interrupted by a curse and a yelp of pain.

I went into the bathroom. John stood over the sink with a wad of tissues pressed to his neck.

"Damn razor," he groaned, rolling his eyes.

"You okay?" I asked, coming up next to him so that our hips were touching and putting my hand over his hand.

"Yeah, I'm alright. I'm not gonna bleed out or anything. Or at least I hope I won't," he said, shifting the tissues. I pressed a kiss to his temple.

"I'm gonna go get dressed," I told him.

"Need some help?" he joked, eyebrows wiggling obscenely.

"Maybe," I said, my eyebrows doing a dance of their own.

I tugged a pair of comfortable jeans over my legs and a gray t-shirt over my head. When I wandered into the sitting room of the hotel room, Ringo was practicing, which entailed him tapping on anything that would sit still long enough to enable him to do so, George was writing, and Brian was reading a magazine.

Ringo was the first to see me. "Hey Paul," he greeted me.

"Morning, Rings," I said. "John's shaving, might be a while." George groaned.

"I'm _starving_!" he moaned, flopping back on the couch dramatically.

"I'm here, don't get your knickers in a twist," John made his grand appearance and I had the sudden feeling that I'd just stepped off a very sharp ledge due to the fact that my stomach was attempting to do somersaults. He was wearing a pair of dark drainpipe trousers that hugged his thighs, a clingy white t-shirt, and a black jacket. They were all three of my favorite articles of clothing out of his closet. I wondered if he had any idea that I was nearly going mad. _Self-restraint? _I thought. _Check... sort of._

"Come on then, let's go," Brian instructed, getting up.

"Forward, march!" John commanded, flinging his hand out.

We went to a restaurant that served crepes and coffee. The crepes were fantastic and the coffee, if it could truly be called that, left much to be desired.

"Pardon me sirs, but I have a telegram for a Mr. Brian Epstein," a young, blonde waitress materialized at our table.

"Thank you," Brian thanked the waitress and she handed him the slip of paper before she left. His eyes slowly grew to a size that would give dinner plates a run for their money in terms of size and his skin drained of pigment. I was terrified that something had happened until he opened his mouth.

"What is it, Eppy?" Ringo asked, concerned. "You look as if you might pass out."

"You-" Brian's voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "You're number one in America," his voice was full of disbelief.

A heart-stopping moment of silence preceded a major explosion of sound that erupted from our table. It's awkward and difficult to hug and clap shoulders when there's a table in the way, but we managed.

"Where are we fellas?" John shouted, a grin of pure joy lighting up his face. This is what he'd been working for ever since he'd first heard an Elvis song on the radio.

"The top, Johnny!" we yelled, and I felt my smile stretch to an impossibly big size.

"And which top is that?" John inquired, laughing with delight. I missed hearing that sound; it had been awhile.

"The toppermost of the poppermost, Johnny!" we crowed.

After breakfast, Brian left to take care of some business. Ringo and George were going to go to a daytime music club. "Do you two wanna come?" Ringo asked. John shook his head.

"No thanks," he said. "There's a song bouncing about in my head and it's driving me bonkers." I shook my head as well.

"I've got a bit of a headache," I lied. "I'm gonna go and lie down for a bit." The pair looked crestfallen.

"Okay, good luck John and feel better Paul," George said, patting our shoulders.

"Thanks, mate." John clapped George on the back.

We practically ran back to the hotel room.

"At least two whole hours," I sighed, falling into John's arms the minute the door closed. He nodded, running his hands up and down my back. I hooked a finger around one of his belt loops and tugged him toward the bedroom where we promptly fell on the bed and continued kissing.

"You know," I said between sloppy, wonderful, open mouthed kisses. "I feel sort of bad for lying to Ringo and George, but-" John stopped my mouth with a kiss that burned with desire.

"Don't be," he murmured, the low pitch of his voice sending ripples of goosebumps over my skin. Not much talk ensued after that, it was mostly just murmured moans and muffled expressions of love.

My hands fluttered to the hem of John's shirt and began to tug. I knew exactly what I wanted. Him.

"Are you sure..." John trailed off when my fingers spread across the smooth skin of his stomach.

"I'm sure," I whispered. There was no turning back now. This was the point of no return.

Some time later, we lay in bed together, covered by a sheen of sweat and a pristine, white sheet. There was no warning when the door opened and two very startled people stumbled in.

"What the hell-" George cried and I realized too late that it would be impossible to pass this off as anything other than what it was. We were naked and tangled together and our clothes were thrown every which way across the room. The two songwriters, best friends, and apparently straight to the unaware eye of the Beatles had just been found in bed by their two other bandmates. Together. And they had just had sex.

_So this is how the band ends,_ I thought miserably.

**A/N: I seem to be prone to leaving cliffhangers as of late. Sorry!**

**Review? :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: So, to recap the last chapter, Paul and John have just been caught in a rather, erm, "compromising" situation by Ringo and George.**

**Will it get resolved? Read on to find out! :)**

**Paul's POV**

I felt a wave of nausea rush through me and had to close my eyes very tightly to avoid throwing up all over the bed which seemed to feel so much dirtier than it had moments ago. We had thought we were being so careful.

"Could you two, uh—" John was at a loss for words, which hadn't happened in a long, long time. Ringo and George nodded, both of them now steadily turning a vibrant shade of red after the initial white of shock. They backed out the door and couldn't seem to shut it fast enough.

I dashed around the room in search of my rather hastily discarded clothes. I could practically feel the heat waves pouring off my skin. "John, what are we gonna _do?_" I hissed, hopping around the room, attempting to pull on my jeans.

"I... I don't know," said John, yanking his t-shirt over his head and rubbing the back of his neck insistently, as he always did when he was worried or thinking. I suspected that both were taking place in his head.

"Are you okay?" I asked, tugging my shirt on and sitting on the bed beside him. He nodded, but the hunched angle of his shoulders and his pale complexion suggested otherwise. "We'll figure it out," I said, rubbing his back and kissing his temple gently. "We always do."

"I hope so," he said heavily, as though the weight of the world had suddenly dropped onto his shoulders. "I hope so."

I got to my feet and walked over to the door to open it. Ringo and George were sitting on the couch, looking at a total loss for what to do or say. "Lads?" I called. Their heads snapped around and they got up to come into the bedroom. I sat down again on the bed next to John and they sat on the chairs around the small table in the room.

For a long moment, there was absolute silence in the room as everyone waited for someone else to start speaking. Finally, Ringo blurted out, "How?" Of all the possible questions either one of them could have asked this was second in awkwardness only to, _"Why?"_

George added, "And when?" John cleared his throat loudly, searching for the right words in the ceiling, as though they might drop down from there and into his head.

"Right around when John was sick," I said, pulling at the hem of my shirt like I was trying to anchor myself to something.

A light seemed to click on in George's head. "So that's why..." he trailed off and I knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Uh, yeah. That's why I got sick," I admitted. George bit his lip and looked away, obviously feeling a bit strange about the whole thing.

"But how?" Ringo asked. "Neither of you are... are..."

"Queer?" supplied John bluntly. Subtlety never was a strong virtue of his. Ringo flushed and nodded.

"I don't think we thought that we were either, but it's just one of those things that kind of happen, you know?" I said, trying to smooth out John's more than rough comment.

"No, I don't know," George said, and I could tell that this was really unsettling to him. I suppose I couldn't blame him.

"It's just like falling in love with a girl, but it's another bloke," I said, trying fruitlessly to explain.

"Look, the pair of you are trying to explain this away like it's nothing, and to be perfectly honest, it's not just nothing. We've just walked in on our two best mates shagging like rabbits and you're pretending it's all fine?" George burst out.

"George—" I started, but he got up and stormed out of the room. A suffocating silence settled in like a big blanket.

Ringo shrugged helplessly and got up to leave. Tears stung my eyes. Of all the people we hoped would be understanding, it was George and Ringo. I couldn't tell with Ringo, but George had taken it none too well.

I fell across John's lap. "So, what do we do now?" he asked, running his fingers through my hair softly. I didn't have an answer for him.

**John's POV**

My head was just reeling in circles. I supposed that it would be hard for George and Ringo to wrap their heads around something like that, but I didn't know they would take it so badly.

Quietly, I snuck out into the main part of the hotel room and plopped down on the couch. My guitar was leaning on the end table and I picked it up. I began to play nonsensical chords, hoping to clear my head a bit. As you might imagine, it didn't really help.

Some time later, Ringo came into the room and sat down in the armchair opposite me. "Hi," he said quietly.

I didn't look up or stop playing. "Hi," I responded emotionlessly.

"Look, I'm really sorry about George's outburst and my leaving," he said, fumbling desperately for the right words. "It's just a bit much to wrap our heads around, y'know? One moment, you think your mates are straight, and the next..." he made a vague gesture to express his loss of words on the subject. "Well, you can imagine that it's a lot to take in."

"Yeah," I agreed, I just thought that, y'know, you would sort of understand. Even a little bit."

"Well, I get the fact that you guys obviously seem to love each other," Ringo said. "Even if I don't really understand how. I think George is mostly worried that it'll ruin the band. Music is all he's ever wanted to do since he was a lad." I nodded in understanding.

"It won't," I said. "Work and pleasure are two different things and both Paul and I know that."

"I sort of figured you two would be able to, you know, work it out," said Ringo, still looking extremely awkward. "I mean, you're not going to, uh—"

"Make out in the studio, or anywhere within eyeshot of you two?" I asked, smirking. Ringo turned a vibrant shade of red and refrained from comment. "We'll try to keep any 'public snogging' to a minimum, I promise."

"Cor, this is just so bloody weird," he plunked his head back against the chair. "I think I'm fine with it, but at the same time I don't really know—" I held up my hands to cut off his confused rambling.

"Jesus, Rich, shut your mouth for a second, will ya?" I joked. "You don't have to be totally fine with it all of a sudden. I'm pretty sure I bloody well wouldn't be if I walked in on you and George getting it on." His eyes just about popped out of his head.

"We'll just see how things work out, yes?" he said, getting up.

"I guess so," I said, rumpling up my already rumpled hair.

Ringo stopped mid-stride. "Um, John, do Cynthia and Jane know?"

I shook my head no. "Nope. Before you say anything, yeah, I know we need to tell them. It's just going to be hard, you know?" He winced in sympathy and I was once again left alone.

I picked up my guitar and softly began to sing:

_Oh yeah, I'll tell you something_

_Not sure if you'll understand_

_When I say that something_

_I wanna hold Paul's hand..._

**A/N: So, there's still some resolving to do, yes? I take any ideas you might have into consideration, because at the moment I'm not quite sure where to take it from here.**

**This chapter is dedicated to a very special Beatle on the day after what would have been his 72nd birthday. I meant to post it yesterday, but as I've said a million and one times, life is what happens. Happy (late) Birthday, John. Wish you could be here to celebrate it.**

**PS: The lyrics are somewhat sort of stolen from TheCrazyViolist. I probably should have asked her first, so if you read this, CrazyV, I'm sorry!**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hello, dear readers! Pardon my absence once again, musical is now over and I will (hopefully) have more time and inclination to write.**

**This is indeed chapter ten! I'm expecting ten more chapters until it's done, probably. Don't take that too seriously, though. I often change my mind.**

**George's POV**

Going into my room in the hotel and slamming the door might not have been my smartest or most mature move, but my brain was far too haywire in shock to do anything that would be constituted as even mildly rational.

But could you blame me? Two of my best friends, two people I trusted and respected, had been hiding something _huge_ from me for months! _What was wrong with me? _I thought, dropping my head into my hands. _Didn't they trust me?_ I mean, I _was_ sort of thought as the little kid trailing along after them, but I thought they were close enough to me to be able to tell me just about anything. I guess not.

Hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes. This whole John-and-Paul-are-in-love thing wouldn't have bothered me so much if those two had just had the balls to tell us. Would I have been shocked? Yeah, probably. But I wouldn't have felt so bloody awful about all the secret keeping.

What would happen to the band? Would Paul and John become so enamored with each other that they split off from Ringo and I to become their own little group? Neither Ringo nor I had the experience to keep our heads above water in the music industry if we tried to go off on our own. If that happened, I could pretty much kiss my musical career goodbye and head back to Liverpool to see if Blackler's had any jobs open for me. Back to being an apprentice electrician with the out of reach dream of being a musician. I'd still be playing my guitar but I'd never be famous again, just known as a washed-up Beatle.

I flopped back on the bed and pulled a pillow over my face, letting a few wayward tears trace wet streaks down my cheeks. Nothing made sense. Maybe I really _was _just a little, tagalong kid.

After an unidentified length of time I heard the door open. "George? You in here?" Paul's hesitant voice called.

"No," I muttered into the pillow. A slight depression at the end of the bed alerted me to the fact that he'd just sat down. "Go away," I mumbled. "I'm really not in the mood for talking."

**Paul's POV**

Between Ringo and George, George took the rather unexpected news of our relationship the hardest. It made sense, actually. From the Quarrymen 'till even now, George felt like he had to work the hardest because he was the youngest. It didn't help that John would rag the poor kid mercilessly when he was tired or in a sour mood, both of which occurred frequently. John felt like George was a younger brother to him, but I didn't really think he communicated that thought especially well.

I sat down on the bed. "Please talk to me, George," I begged. With great slowness, he pulled himself up into an upright position. His eyes were slightly red, signifying that he'd been crying. "Look, I'm really sorry that you had to find out this way—" I began, but George cut me off, his eyes colder than ice.

"Oh, you're sorry?" he scoffed. "You're sorry? You didn't have two of your best friends keep a secret from you for months because you'r apparently not trustworthy enough." I cringed at the venom in his voice as all of his emotions came crashing to the surface.

"It's not like that, Geo—" I started to say, but he cut me short again.

"Then what is it, Paul? What? And if you say you thought we'd react badly I'm gonna punch your fucking lights out because yeah, we might've been quite surprised, but it would've been a whole hell of a lot better than feeling like your friends don't trust you." His voice was strong and accusatory, but his lower lip had begun to quiver traitorously.

"Of course we trust you, George!" I said, shocked that he would think such a thing. "But you know that being queer for someone isn't exactly something you go parading about with. People have ended up in bloody prison for snogging in public! The general public views it as dirty or abnormal and we didn't know if you would too," I explained. "We were scared, and as stupid as it sounds, it's true."

George shook his head, suddenly looking very confused and very small. "Christ, I dunno what to think anymore," he muttered, putting his head on his knees. "It's not gonna, y'know... b'kupt'h'bnd." I frowned, trying to decipher the mashup of sounds. It took me a moment, but I got it eventually.

"Break up the band?" I asked quietly. "Absolutely not. As much as this relationship means to us, the Beatles means more. And we promise, no snogging, whether it be brief and chaste or long and impassioned, in the studio." I grinned tentatively, hearing a quiet chuckle from George.

I got up and turned to leave when George's voice echoed out. "Paul?" I looked at him. "Thanks," he said softly.

I went over to him and patted his shoulder. "No problem, mate," I said, ruffling his hair gently.

Later that week we finished our tour and went back to the studio for the first time in awhile. Even though John and I kept our relationship successfully out of our work, it still felt awkward. George and Ringo looked nervous the whole time we were in there.

Finally, John couldn't take it anymore and said, "Would you two _please _lighten up? You're looking at us like we're about to start going at it any minute." Dead silence echoed obnoxiously through the room as it's occupants slowly flushed impressive hues of crimson.

A tiny, embarrassed giggle from Ringo prompted chuckles, guffaws, and finally, outright laughter from the rest of us. I leaned against the wall, clutching my aching sides. It was more relieved laughter than anything for me, I could think of so many ways that that scenario would end badly.

Brian burst into the studio. "Boys, what on Earth are you _doing_?" he asked.

I held up a hand, indicating for him to wait until I wasn't crying from laughter. "Sorry, Eppy, I'm not exactly sure," I chuckled, wiping my eyes. He huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes, but refrained from comment.

Later that night, we lay in bed together at Kenwood, knowing that Cynthia and Julian were at her mother's. I drowsed lightly, taking comfort from the firm, warm heat that was John's chest against my back.

"Paul, you awake?" John whispered, pushing his face into the nape of my neck and rubbing my arm.

"Yeah," I murmured sleepily. "What's up?"

"I can't sleep," he confessed, sitting up. I sat up as well, pushing my hair out of my face.

"Me either," I said, reaching over to kiss him softly on the lips. "Why can't you sleep?" He flopped back on the bed, pulling me along with him so that I was laying on his chest.

"Just thinking, I guess," he murmured, encircling my waist in a strong hug.

"About what?" I asked, leaning my forehead against his, staring deeply into his chocolate eyes.

"You, me, us," he said. A question was fighting to get past his lips. "Paul? Why do you love me?" he asked quietly.

I kissed him before responding. "More reasons than I can ever begin to count."

"No, I'm serious," said John earnestly. "I got a bad bit of hate mail from one of those blokes whose girlfriends leave them because of us or some shit like that. He said, 'I don't know why me girl fell in love with a tosser like you. You're nothing special. You're a horrible singer, a shitty guitar player, and an even worse looking bugger,'" he recited, his voice growing more and more quiet with each word.

I took his face in my hands. "That was just some jealous guy, Johnny. You're a fab singer, a gear guitar player, and the single most handsome man on the planet," I whispered, kissing his forehead. "And, you're smart, funny, sweet, and a _great_ kisser," I added, grinning.

John grinned wolfishly, obviously feeling a bit better. "You're not so bad yourself, McCartney," he whispered, pressing a passionate kiss to my mouth. Life was one big roller coaster ride it seemed, and ours still had a few ups and downs before we could coast happily.

**A/N: Review?**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hey guys, it's been awhile, hasn't it? Gosh, I'm sorry. I just finished the Christmas chapters a few days ago. I'll try to write a lot of chapters to make up for it. Promise.**

**John's POV**

Remember what I said about having to tell Cyn and Jane that their significant others were otherwise occupied in a relationship? Well, it turned out that we didn't have to tell Cynthia anything.

She found out on her own.

The next morning, Paul and I woke up in each others' arms to the sound of a purse falling to the ground. I blinked sleepily at the clock and shot straight up. Ten o'clock? How was that possible? I looked over to see Cynthia staring at the two of us with bug eyes that were starting to well up with tears. I shook Paul awake.

"Hey, wake up. We've got company," I said, trying valiantly not to have a mental breakdown. This was not happening. He blinked slowly, stirring.

"Hmf, whassat?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. When he saw Cyn, his eyes popped out of his head and his cheeks burned red.

"Cyn—" I started, getting out of bed and reaching for her arm, but she twisted away from me, hurt written across her face as plainly as if she'd screamed.

"What's going on, John?" she asked quietly, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

"Look, Cyn, this is hard to explain but—" my comment somehow made her regain her confidence.

"I think I can explain it pretty well," she said. "My husband went queer for his bandmate and decided not to tell his wife. Just when were you planning to tell me? When, John? Or were you not going to?"

I fidgeted. I had been planning on telling her, I really had. "I was gonna tell you, really!" I protested.

"Why should I believe you? If I got a pound for every time you conveniently forgot to tell me something, I'd be a rich woman." Her composure was beginning to crack.

"It's not like I meant for it to happen! I didn't plan this!" I exclaimed. "But the fact is that I love Paul. With all my heart."

"What about Julian?" she asked softly, eyes still burning. "How am I going to tell him when he's older that he won't ever see much of his father? But that's not exactly new, I guess."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Of course I'll still see him a lot! He's my son! I love him."

She regarded me coldly. "I'll not be having my son get the wrong ideas about his sexuality."

"What?" I yelped. "What are you on about? Are you telling me I won't be seeing him anymore? You can't do that!"

"I can and I will!" she said, her voice rising exponentially. She was trying so hard not to succumb to the wave of tears hiding in her eyes, she didn't want to give me that satisfaction. I almost felt sorry for her, and then I remembered that she'd just told me that I wouldn't be seeing Julian anymore. Somehow, that thought dulled that instinct.

I opened my mouth to say something else, but she interrupted me. "John, you need to leave. You and Paul both."

"But—" I stammered.

"Get out!" she yelled, storming from the room. I heard the beginning of a sob as she disappeared from view.

Silently, Paul and I got dressed and got our things together. We didn't speak a word until we got out to my car. I had a jumble of emotions bouncing off the confines of my skull and it was driving me crazy.

Paul was the first to break the oppressive silence. "Well, that went well," he said, clapping his hands together. I made a noise that was part laughter, part a strangled sob and one hundred percent pitiful. He reached across the console and pulled my limp body against his, running his fingers through my hair slowly. "It's gonna be okay, Johnny," he murmured.

I tried to stop myself from turning into a totally helpless pile of mush, but I eventually gave up and let myself cry into Paul's shoulder. He didn't do anything but continue to massage my scalp with his fingertips until I'd cried myself out. I was grateful that Paul was like he was. Everything about him was so perfect. Of all the men I could've accidentally fallen in love with, I was glad it was him.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Paul gently broached the question. I thought about it. My immediate answer was no, but I knew I needed to get it out in the open or I'd spend the next God knows how long brooding about it. I couldn't afford to do that; sleep was hard enough to come by as it was.

"Christ, I just don't know what to say," I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. "I know I've been a shitty dad, but to be denied all rights to my own son... And what she said about me, well, us. Paul, is there something wrong with us? Wrong with what we're doing?"

Paul grasped my chin gently in his calloused hand, pulling me around to face him. "Nope. Nothing at all," he whispered, pressing a feather-light kiss to my lips. "The world might think so, but love is love is love and it's never wrong, no matter what form it takes."

"So, do we want to take care of all this stuff today?" I asked after a time. "Do we tell Jane as well today?"

Paul was quiet for a long time. His eyes turned far away from the present situation, indicating that he was burrowing deeply within himself to decide how he would answer. He didn't want to have to, but I think he also knew that it would have to happen sooner or later and that maybe sooner was better.

"Yeah, I s'pose we probably should," he muttered, starting the car and swinging it in the direction of Jane Asher's flat.

Neither of us wanted to talk much, so I turned the radio up to fill the silent gap that was dividing us. Not surprisingly, we were one of the first songs that began to play. It was I Want to Hold Your Hand. Memories of writing that song and how I'd become inspired to write it and I smiled a little and rubbed Paul's arm.

"This sounds familiar," he said, looking at me briefly, grinning in the adorable way he always did.

"Yeah, it's a good song. A talented pair of blokes must have written it," I nonchalantly commented.

"Mmhm," Paul nodded. "Whoever came up with the idea must have loved someone a lot."

"And the person that helped them finish must have been head over heels as well," I paused for a beat. "Was that conversation as cheesy as I think it was?" I questioned, a tiny chuckle escaping my lips.

"No way..." Paul trailed off as he reviewed the conversation in his head. "Actually, yes. Yes it was." A small fraction of the tension within him seemed to lift.

When we pulled up to the curb however, he began to have some second thoughts about the whole thing. "John, I don't think I can do this," he said, shaking his head violently and turning pale. "I really don't. I don't know what to say or do-" I kissed him lightly.

"It's okay, Paulie," I assured him. "You can do this. It's all gonna be fine, you'll see." He heaved a big breath and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he set his jaw and nodded faintly, getting out of the car. I followed close behind him.

When we got up to the door, I noticed that no one could see us from the sides of the street. I grasped Paul's hand and threaded my fingers between his, squeezing gently for reassurance as he rang the doorbell. It sounded, the ringing echoing with a tinny sound across the street. He gave me a grateful smile, leaning against me briefly.

Almost immediately, Jane answered the door, so fast that I didn't have time to disentangle my hand from Paul's. Her eyes went from our intertwined fingers to our blushing faces and back to our hands again. An obnoxious silence made itself known for an uncomfortable stretch of time. I bounced on my toes nervously, carefully looking anywhere and everywhere but the redheaded girl's face.

Finally, she coughed lightly and pasted a minuscule smile on her lips. "I take it you two have something to tell me?" she inquired hesitantly, opening the door to let us in. Paul tried to inch his fingers out of my grasp, but I wouldn't let him now. I needed to keep myself anchored, and it would be showing weakness to do that.

Inside the modest little flat with modern furniture and various colorful paintings here and there, Paul and I took a seat on a black leather couch. We were still holding hands. Jane sat down in a chair opposite us. Giving a little gesture with her hands that said, 'go ahead', she sat back and waited.

Paul rubbed his temple with his free hand, searching for the right words. "I dunno what to say, really," he confessed. "One day I didn't feel like... um, well, I didn't feel like I loved John and then somehow, I did. I can't explain it, but there you go."

"Same explanation for me as well," I agreed, tapping my toes against the floor nervously.

"And you just decided to tell me and Cyn now?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Paul made like he was about to apologize, but she flapped a hand at him to shush him. "It's about time! I've known for ages that there was something up with you two, but I couldn't really tell what it was until now. You blokes aren't exactly the most subtle pair in the world," she informed us. I'm pretty sure we turned identical shades of red. My ears burned.

"I mean," she continued, "whenever you're in the same room you practically make love with your eyes and Paul here never shuts up about you, John."

"Are we seriously that obvious?" I winced, rubbing circles on Paul's hand. We'd have to be a little more careful in the future.

Jane laughed, pulling her hair over her shoulder. "Not all the time, but I was watching," she said. "Paul, I suppose this means that we're no more?" Her eyes were sad. I could see Paul's lip begin to quiver a little.

"Jane, I'm so sorry," he said, getting up to hug her one last time. Over Paul's shoulder, I saw her squeeze her eyes shut and a small, crystalline tear leaked from her eye.

When she pulled away, she screwed a smile on her face and wiped the tear away bravely. "It's all right, Paul. Maybe it's for the best." She kissed his cheek gently and disappeared into the back of the house.

The mood for that day was significantly more somber than the day before. Now almost everyone that we knew knew about the fact that Paul and I did more than just write songs, but it didn't make it any easier. In fact, it just made it worse. Whenever they made eye contact with me, it was like they were afraid that I would just start shagging with Paul on the nearest available surface. I guess they didn't know that it was just like being so called "normal," except I had to deal with the new sensation of stubble burn from more heated kissing sessions, a sensation I didn't particularly enjoy. But, I got to kiss Paul, so it sort of made up for it.

"I love you, y'know?" he whispered in my ear sometime later as we sat in his car, staring out at the ocean from a secluded spot. It was our favorite spot to go to when we needed to get away from it all.

I turned and kissed his lips gently. "Not as much as I love you," I replied.

"We are not having that conversation again. I love you the most, end of story."

"But I love you the mostest."

Paul sighed. "You are an insufferable bastard."

"And that's why you love me."

**A/N; Review? :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: I'm back! Pardon any extended delays, my brain has not been in a writing mood lately and I haven't been able to figure out why.**

**John's POV**

Once the bump in the road called Jane and Cyn was behind us—for the most part anyway, some pretenses were still necessary—life was relatively smooth for Paul and I. As long as we weren't going at it on the table, which to be honest didn't sound very tempting, Ringo and George didn't care much if we held hands in the studio, made occasional googly eyes at each other, or shared a quick kiss here or there. At this particular moment it was early 1964 and we were finishing up filming for our first ever movie. A trip to America was in our future as well.

"That's a wrap, fellas!" Dick Lester shouted. "Your movie is officially done filming!" A cheer went up from us and the rest of the actors and actresses we'd been working with. It hadn't felt much like work, most of the movie was just us messing around.

"They're gonna put me in the movies..." Ringo started to sing jovially, a grin lighting up his face. Somehow, everyone ended up singing, or perhaps shouting at the top of their lungs would be a more apt description. I patted Paul on the back, a gesture that probably looked innocent, but to both of us became less so when my hand 'accidentally' slid off and brushed across his backside. He jumped slightly and turned to look at me quickly. I smirked and shrugged, winking at him. Paul shook his head, rolling his eyes.

"And all I gotta do is, act naturally!" we finished, laughing and creating a ruckus that the directors didn't even try to calm.

That night in our hotel room, Paul cornered me with a mischievous glint in his eye. ""You," he began, "are terrible. Touching my arse in public? Cheeky."

I took a long step forward and erased the space between us. Putting my mouth against the delicate shell of his ear, I muttered, "You liked it though, didn't you?" A visible shiver of pleasure ran through him, making his breathing hitch and a wave of goosebumps popped out on his pale skin.

"You have no idea what you do to me," Paul's voice had lowered to the husky timbre he reserved for moments like this, mostly because he knew full well it drove me wild. He walked me backward, arms snaking up around my neck. "All day I want you and I know I can't have you. It's torture, Johnny. _Torture._"

I turned and gently pushed him back to the bed, clambering on after him so I hovered above him. "Do you want me to kiss it better?" I breathed, capturing his soft, full lips in a tender kiss. His mouth worked under mine, succeeding in quickly making me breathless.

We broke apart long enough for Paul to say, voice a whine of desire, "Oh God, _yes._"

We made love until the clock said it was around midnight. Panting lightly, I rolled to the side and snuggled under the covers. Paul pressed his back to my chest, sighing and almost immediately falling asleep. I put an arm around his bare torso and pulled him close, shutting my eyes and drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep. Before I was totally asleep, I thought if I had to stay like this forever, I wouldn't mind.

The next morning, I woke to an empty bed. For a moment I panicked, my breath coming in shallow gasps, until I noticed Paul standing at the window with his hands braced against the windowsill. He was wearing only his boxer shorts and an expression that told me he was thinking deeply about something. Sliding out of bed, I pulled on my boxers silently and walked up behind him, putting my arms around his waist and kissing his neck softly.

"You shouldn't think that hard, Paulie," I murmured. "There's smoke coming out your ears." He chuckled quietly, leaning his head back so his hair tickled my cheek.

"Really funny, Johnny," he said, bumping his ankle against mine.

"I _am _really funny and you know it."

"Uh-huh. Really over-confident, yes. Funny? I'm just not seeing it."

"Oh, you'll pay for that, sir!" I growled playfully, locking my arms around him and carrying him back to the bed.

"Will I?" he inquired, grinning impishly up at me. I felt my heart thump happily. "'Cause I don't think I will." I was so caught up in staring at him that I failed to notice him sneakily readjusting his hold on me. Suddenly, I found myself on my back beneath Paul. I blinked in confusion. Paul laughed at the puzzled look on my face, nudging my nose with his own.

"You were saying?" he said smugly.

"I hate you," I muttered dramatically, struggling against him half-heartedly.

"I'm sure you do," he rolled his eyes. "That's why you were moaning my name so loudly last night. _'Paaaaauuulll, oohhhhh Paaaauuulll'_," he mimicked teasingly, running his fingers down my side. I squirmed.

"Cut that out, you cocky little sod!" I exclaimed. Thus far, Paul had not discovered that I was extremely ticklish and I was not eager for him to. It was fairly embarrassing.

"Cut what out?" he asked innocently, repeating the action. I tried to hold back a laugh without much success. "Oh, you mean _this?_ You, the big, bad John Lennon, ticklish? Now I've seen everything."

"Goddammit, stop!" I choked, entirely failing to hide my laughter. Paul grinned triumphantly and began to tickle my sides with a vengeance. I tried to roll away from him and get him back since I knew he was also at least somewhat ticklish, but I couldn't.

"Not on your life, love," he said breathlessly, cheeks flushed from laughing as well. "Not until you say I win."

"Win what?"

"Just say it, go on!"

I contemplated not giving in, but I hadn't been to the bathroom yet that day and was in serious danger of embarrassing myself greatly. "Oh, _fine!_ Get off, now!" Paul flopped down next to me, trying to stop laughing. He put his hands on his stomach, squeezing his eyes shut. I darted up from the bed and sped into the bathroom.

"Where are you off to?" Paul had finally stopped laughing enough to be capable of normal speech.

"The loo, you idiot! You almost made me piss meself, if you must know," I said dryly from behind the door. The sound of Paul cracking up again came from the bed. We were so mature.

When we finally wandered into the main room, George and Ringo were sitting in chairs across from each other, dutifully buried in some form of fan mail or another. "Hi, fellas," Paul said, sitting down on the couch. That did it; George snorted with laughter and set Ringo off.

"What on Earth could possibly be so funny?" I asked, taking a seat beside Paul.

"Have fun last night and this morning?" Ringo managed. Paul and I shared a look, both of our faces flaming bright red. _Oops._

"What?" Paul asked, playing naïve.

"The walls are awfully thin in this hotel, y'know," George hinted, grinning in a way so we knew they didn't really mind and were just poking at us a bit, just like any one of us would if one of the others got a new girlfriend. The fact that they were treating our relationship like any other one made my heart swell with an impossible happiness. I couldn't possibly have had better friends than them.

The rest of the day was spent walking around in ridiculous costumes, going into little, mostly unknown record shops, buying fan mags to have a laugh about later, and eating out. Except for the fact that I couldn't be holding Paul's hand tightly the entire time, it was a lot of fun. Ringo nearly got found out when his beard slipped, but no other close calls occurred.

It only came to me while we were eating dinner that as much as the relationship Paul and I had felt like any other relationship, it wasn't at all. It didn't even bother me that much that we couldn't be seen together in public together. That wasn't really that different from before. It was the fact that I couldn't express the feeling of wanting Paul to belong to me and vice versa for the rest of our lives in the way that most people could. I couldn't ask him to marry me. I mean, I could, but it could never be done properly.

I wanted to be able to marry him, I knew that much. The only question was how.

**A/N: Ooh, and the tension goes back up! Hope you enjoyed it!**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Enjoy more John and Paul cuteness and a little bit of non-fluff. **

**Disclaimer: (I habitually forget to do these. Bleh.) I don't own the Beatles, nor was the relationship a reality. This is just something that lives in my imagination and I let it out periodically.**

**John's POV**

We were on the plane to America for the first time ever and as cool as it was, it was also a little terrifying. Only George had been there before because he'd visited his sister, but he hadn't had to face ginormous screaming masses. Since it was only us where we were sitting, I grabbed Paul's hand and held it tightly. He looked at me in amusement.

"You're not scared, are you?" he asked, rubbing his thumb against the back of my hand. I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye.

"No, 'course I'm not bloody scared!" I retorted. This was an out and out lie; I detested flying. The thought of being so high in the air protected by hardly anything was extremely unnerving to me. Now it was Paul's turn to give me a look and I once again silently bemoaned the fact that he could read me like a book. "Macca, you're burning a hole in me head. Cut it out, will you?" I teased, waving a hand in front of his face.

"You're not fooling me, Johnny boy," he said quietly. "I already know you're scared stiff of flying, so is George. It's kind of obvious when you both turn deathly white as soon as you set foot in an airplane. It's okay." He nuzzled his face into my neck, eyelashes leaving feather-light butterfly kisses when he blinked his sleepy hazel eyes.

"Doesn't count," I mumbled, wincing a bit as we hit a spot of turbulence. "Geo's sick, he looked like a ghost before we even got near the plane." I rested my cheek in Paul's hair, shutting my eyes and inhaling the intoxicating smell of his cologne.

"Point taken." I almost hear Paul's eyes roll in their sockets.

Eventually, he fell asleep on my shoulder. I settled back in my seat, far too wired to sleep. It probably would have been a good idea though. I hadn't been sleeping much because there was one thought that kept plaguing my mind. It would pop up at the most unrelated of times, distracting me and ruling supreme over my thoughts.

I wanted to spend the rest of my life with the man sleeping next to me, I knew that much. I wanted him to be the first thing I saw in the morning, the person I spent every waking moment with, and the person I kissed goodnight. James Paul McCartney was absolutely the only person I could see myself with. I could be completely myself around him, no reservations, without fear he would laugh or be scared away.

Unfortunately, there was just a slight hitch in my otherwise seemingly unblemished wishes. No priest would ever marry us and would likely call the police if we asked them to perform a service like that. Wouldn't that be a headline: _"Lennon and McCartney Arrested Looking to Get Married."_ If that wouldn't kiss our careers goodbye and tell them not to let the door smack their arses on the way out, I didn't know what would. I mentally groaned, pressing a protective kiss to the top of Paul's head. Why was this so difficult?

"John, you okay?" Ringo leaned across the isle to talk to me. George was fast asleep against the window, his mouth slightly slack.

"Yeah, just thinking I guess," I replied, squeezing Paul's hand lightly. His fingers subconsciously twitched around mine, making my heart skip a couple beats. "How's George doing?"

The drummer shrugged. "I think the sleep'll help him a little, but he didn't sound very well when we got on the plane and he's definitely still got fever."

I winced, shaking my head. "Poor bugger. He gets sick so much."

Ringo nodded, twisting the rings on his fingers. I stared at the ring finger on my own left hand, envisioning a ring on it. If I stared at it hard enough, I could almost feel a band of metal resting there gently.

But what good would a ring be? When asked about it it wasn't as though I could say, "Yeah, I'm married to one of my bandmates and we're very happy. Thanks for asking and if you don't like it, that's your problem." Granted, I would have _liked_ to say that, but I had a feeling the general public wouldn't appreciate it very much if I did. And at the moment I wanted not to care fuck-all about the 'general public'.

I decided to forget about it for the time being and snuggled up to Paul, closing my eyes. The next thing I knew, we were being shaken awake. I managed a succinct, "Whatthefuckdoyouwant?"

"Cute though this is," Ringo's voice floated through my ears. "The plane landed and the fans'll be crawling on the wings if we don't get out." I groaned, reluctantly tearing myself away from Paul and standing up. My back cracked as I stretched, rubbing the sleep grit from my bleary eyes. Next to me, Paul was doing the same thing, nose wrinkling up as he yawned. If he'd let me—which he wouldn't—I'd probably make a video of his various adorable quirks. Scrunching his nose up when he yawned, bugging his eyes out if he was trying to be funny, habitually scratching his face with his middle finger, I'm sure I could think of hundreds more.

"Yeah, yeah, sod off you cheeky git," I waved him away. "We're coming."

"In public? You naughty boys," George cracked raspily, swaying a little with his carry-on luggage in hand. Just like any relationship any of us had, good natured sex jokes abounded.

Paul's eyes only popped about three feet out of his head. "Shut up and save your voice," he commanded, bright pink in the face. I felt my own ears and neck burn. George merely chuckled and made his way to the front of the plane. The poor kid was clearly not feeling well at all. _Unfortunately, it seems like none of us are ever too sick to make an off-color joke,_ I thought.

Paul caught me by the wrist, pulling me close. "America, just like you always talked about," he whispered into my neck, referring to the numerous conversations we had as teenagers about getting famous. Now it was finally happening.

I kissed him softly, his warm lips touching mine and making my whole body feel like it was glowing with love. "Finally, yeah? I told you I'd bring you if I went and I never break a promise." An overjoyed grin spread across his face and I received a hungrier, deeper kiss that nearly made me go cross-eyed with desire. Tragedy, I know.

"Oi, lovebirds! Gettin' off the plane _today_ would be gear!" Ringo cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. We jumped apart, smoothed our hair down, and were swallowed by the roar of thousands of hysterical teenagers.

Even though I was quickly gaining a pounding headache, I couldn't stop beaming as I looked around. Sure, our fans were bonkers, but we had _fans._ And a lot of them too.

"Boys, you need to hurry!" Brian barked, looking extremely nervous. I didn't blame him, the police could only hold back so many crazy people for so long.

I wanted to say something back in my trademarked sarcastic manner, but he definitely wouldn't have heard me so I nodded to show I understood and made a beeline for the car. Once inside, I sank into my seat and sighed with relief. George slumped against the window, panting shallowly. He looked awful.

"Don't go belly up on us, okay mate?" Paul nudged the ill boy lightly. "We sort of need you, y'know."

George cracked his eyes open, licked his dry lips, and croaked, "Piss. Off." Not too sick to be grumpy, then. That was a positive sign, we hoped.

At the hotel inside the lobby the staff informed us that our room was on the third floor and also imparted to us that the elevators weren't working and hadn't been for a week. I snuck a glance at George, who had looked at the stairwell in despair after hearing those words. He was on the verge of fainting from exhaustion and overexposure to a lot of noise. Going up the stairs would probably spell disaster for him.

Now for the task of getting him up the aforementioned stairs. Paul and I got on either side of him and he braced his arms on our shoulders to hold himself up. Ringo brought up the rear with a steadying hand on George's back in case he would reel backwards suddenly.

Though it was a slow process, we made it to the hotel room without any catastrophes. George dove into bed immediately and the rest of us collapsed into various couches and chairs with sighs of happiness at the long-awaited comfort. Paul and I were on the couch and I flipped onto my back so my legs dangled over the edge and my head rested on Paul's lap. He ran a massaging hand through my hair, fingernails scratching lightly at my scalp. I nearly purred like a content cat.

Looking over to Ringo, I saw he was flat out asleep in an armchair with his head tilted back and legs up on the coffee table. Exhaling slowly I looked up at Paul, who was nearly drowsing again as well.

**Paul's POV**

I looked down at John's relaxed expression. He rubbed at my leg almost absentmindedly, which was dangling off the couch. A small smile curved his lips up a little.

Something was bothering him and had been for some time, I could tell that much. Though what it was, I didn't know at the time. John's general emotions were easy to read for me, but sometimes the specifics were buried deep in his dark brown eyes. Whenever he wasn't talking to someone, he adopted a faraway look and his brow furrowed slightly. Whatever he was thinking about was bothering him greatly. At times, I'd wake up to an empty bed and he'd be sitting in his classic reading position in the corner by the lamp he elected to leave on in the night. At times I don't think he was reading, but merely laying on his back with his legs up against the wall and propped up to the side on one elbow and staring at a book blankly while his thoughts turned cartwheels in his head.

I wished he would tell me, but at the same time, it occurred to me that the problem might not be mine to meddle in.

**A/N: Oh Paul, if you only knew... Dramatic irony, anyone?**

**Review, please! :)**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: I have a distinct feeling you guys are gonna like this chapter... heheh ;)**

**Paul's POV**

Amazing. That was the only word I could think of to describe our trip to America. Our fans' level of dedication was incredibly flattering, slightly strange, (who knew four lads with funny haircuts could inspire that sort of reaction?) and at times just a little frightening. Like the time they climbed onto the wings of the plane we were on. I could have definitely done without that. Brian had nearly had a stroke at that point. The four of us were almost sitting under our seats. Death by overly zealous fans. What a way to go.

Thankfully it didn't happen, and we had been back in good old England for a few months. I was glad to be home, but John had been absolutely enthralled by the busy life in the States, especially New York. It was all just a tad too noisy for me and I was relieved to be back on my farm. John still lived in London, but we made frequent visits to each place. Needless to say, the visits were rather discreet.

Being in the Beatles had one distinct advantage aside from the obvious—the chance to write songs and have the world love them—we were exceedingly good at disguising ourselves and going around without notice.

John was still having problems with Cynthia and trying to be able to see Julian. It had been a long time, far longer than John had ever wanted and he was starting to go a bit bonkers about it. There was no way I could argue with him on that: I'm sure I would feel the same way if I had a son or daughter I was forbidden to see by their mother.

The anniversary of John and I falling for each other like two fools was fast approaching, and while his rather odd behavior from our America trip had ceased, I couldn't help but think he was still thinking about something. I didn't know what it was, though. Every time I asked, he became evasive and tried to distract me with kisses or sex. And yes, it worked effectively.

Right then, we were at my farm in the kitchen and talking. By talking, I mean we were sneaking in words through a rather heated snogging session. I was backed up against the sink and John had his hands braced against the counter behind me when they weren't otherwise occupied. My back was protesting the abuse, but I ignored it.

"Paul?" he mumbled against my lips between sloppy, eager kisses.

"Mm," I moaned, not exactly hearing the question through the buzz of pleasure in my ears. When it managed to come through, I replied, "Yeah?"

"Wanna do something?"

I managed to raise an eyebrow. "Aren't we already?"

He pulled away, leaving my lips suddenly very lonely. "You git, that's not what I meant!" His tone was good-natured and teasing.

"By all means, elaborate and inform a poor, confused Liverpudlian," I joked, grabbing him by the collar and bringing his face down next to mine again. "And come back here," I purred.

John shivered against me. "Your voice ought to be illegal when it sounds like that," he said, kissing me briefly before speaking again. "I was wondering if you'd like to have a picnic of sorts tonight. Y'know, out by the pasture somewhere."

"Then you wouldn't be able to hear it," I replied, nudging my nose against his. "Yeah, sounds good to me. Any reason in particular?"

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second. "No, not really. It's nice out tonight and it's almost that day," he grasped my hands between his own.

"What day?" I played dumb for a moment. "Oh! You mean the day I fell in love with the biggest idiot the world has ever known?"

"Nope," he said. "I did that first." We stood in a loose embrace for several minutes until I spoke again.

"Um, John?"

"Yeah, love?"

"I think one of us may have bumped the faucet on at some point."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because the sink is overflowing and I can feel it soaking my shirt."

John leapt away from the sink, tugging me with him. I looked at the soaked back of my pants and shirt and began to laugh, squelching back to the faucet to turn it off and drain the sink. I heard John whistle behind me.

I turned around and fixed him with a playful stare. "See something you like?"

"Gotta say, Macca," John started, running a slow eye up and down. "You look good wet."

"You would say that," I laughed. "I'm gonna go change and if you want to have any time at all for our little picnic, don't help me." He made a puppy face. "Too bad, Lennon. I'll be back so fast you won't know I've gone." Blowing a kiss in his direction, I ran up the steps to change out of my wet clothing.

**John's POV**

As soon as Paul was out of sight, I pulled a tiny velvet box out of my pants pocket. Opening it revealed a simple silver ring with tiny diamonds embedded all around it in the middle. It was the least girly engagement ring I could find that wasn't flat-out boring.

I'd bought it a couple weeks back, and ever since then, it had been in my pocket as though that would make me braver about the thing I wanted to do so badly. Now I was finally brave enough.

Waiting for the man I loved to come down the stairs, I thought back to when I bought the small object that would change my life forever.

_-Flashback-_

_"May I help you?" The woman behind the jewelry counter smiled at me in a sickeningly sweet way that made my stomach churn. If she carried on like that, I didn't think I could go through with what I was about to do._

_"Yes, actually," I said, pasting a smile on my own face and adopting a lower, slightly Scottish, tone. I had a hat, a pair of sunglasses, and a paste-on mustache. I hoped that was enough. "I'm looking for an engagement ring for me girl." Or rather, for my lover who happens to be Paul McCartney._

_The woman nearly popped an artery in her excitement. With a squeal, she brought the entire case of rings out for me to see, nearly spilling them in her haste. "Oh, how wonderful! Now tell me, what is your girlfriend like?" Oh, you mean what is Paul like? Well, he's a bloody fantastic bass player, handsome, smart, a smart-arse, funny, and sweet. I guess that's not quite what you were looking for, huh?_

_I forced myself to use the correct identifying pronoun. Do not say he. "She's the most amazing person I know, I can't really describe her."_

_The woman was practically swooning by this point. "Isn't that just the sweetest thing? Oh, she's a lucky girl. Is she athletic, or more bookish? Romantic?"_

_This was proving to be far harder than I thought it would be. "Erm, she's sort of sporty, I s'pose," I said, hoping that would rule out all the overly feminine ones. "But she's also a bit of a romantic. And she also doesn't like anything overly showy."_

_I think that may have confused her a little, because she took her time in responding. "Well... Okay, perhaps one of these?" She removed a selection of about ten rings or so and presented them proudly to me. I pored over them selectively, brain whirring in decision. Too plain, too feminine, too... weird. I was almost going to thank her for her time and leave, but then one caught my eye. It was plain, but not boring, and I could just picture it sitting on Paul's finger._

_I pointed at it. "I think she'd like that one." She looked at it questioningly for a moment and then asked me for the size I would need. I told her my estimation on what I thought Paul's size would be and she wrinkled her nose for a fleeting instant once again. Apparently, she thought my "girlfriend" had some rather large hands._

_"Ta much," I said, paying for the ring and leaving with the box held tightly in my hand. In that box was the symbol of the rest of my life, even if it would have to be in secret. Somehow, I'd managed to accept that some things were too good to share. Maybe this relationship was one of them._

_-End Flashback-_

I quickly slipped the box back into my pocket when the sound of Paul's feet on the stairs was audible. He grinned at me in his usual heart-melting way and pulled a wicker basket out of the closet next to the stairs.

"What d'you want to bring for food?" he asked, setting the basket on the counter and beginning to pull some silverware and cloth napkins out of a drawer.

"I dunno, maybe chicken salad sandwiches?" I responded nonchalantly, leaning against the wall and trying to avoid showing how hard my heart was beating. "I know we have leftovers of that in the fridge from the other night." Paul nodded at me, returning to his task. I remained standing where I was. When he turned around again and saw I hadn't moved, he waved a hand in a "get on with it" gesture.

"What?" I shrugged.

"Go on, then! I'm not gonna do all of this by myself," he joked, flicking water at me.

"All right mother, don't get your knickers in a bunch." I shot back good-naturedly, digging through the refrigerator in search of the chicken salad. When I found it, I nicked a spoon from Paul and started spreading it on bread to make several sandwiches. I wasn't going to eat too much, butterflies took up residency in the majority of my stomach. I smoothed a nervous hand over my pocket to reassure myself the little box was still there. It was.

Paul pulled a bottle of red wine from the cupboard above the sink, stuck it carefully in next to a pair of glasses and the sandwiches, and grinned at me. "Ready? I'm starved."

I have never been more simultaneously ready and not ready in my life, I thought, nodding and taking Paul's hand gently. He squeezed my fingers in return, bumping the door open with his foot because his other hand was occupied with the picnic basket and blanket.

We took our things out to a spot where there were a lot of trees, but we sat in a clear spot with trees in a ring around us. If you looked at it a certain way, it wouldn't be hard to believe we were the only people in the world at that moment. Which was how I wanted it. The sun was slowly sinking down behind the curtain of trees, leaving a sky streaked with clouds and vibrant hues of red, orange, yellow, and purple. Soon, there would be stars. I made a decision; I would ask when the first star appeared.

That's what Paul was to me. The only star in my otherwise empty sky.

Right before the stars began to appear, Paul paused in our conversation and gave me a long, searching look. "John, what's bothering you?"

"Bothering me?" I played innocent, clenching my fist around the tiny velvet box. There was sweat beading on my lip and I silently cursed my nerves repeatedly.

"You've gone all white," he said in concern, reaching out to touch my cheek with his hand tenderly.

_Now or never, Lennon,_ I thought, clutching the box and beginning to draw it slowly out behind my back. _Buck up and do it._

"Paul..." I began slowly, getting to my feet and pulling him up with me. The star was out.

His forehead instantly creased with worry. "What is it, John? Is everything all right?"

I grinned shakily, the sight of him standing there in front of me washing away my doubts like the ocean washing away a sandcastle at high tide. "Never better, actually."

His head tipped to the side in question. "Then why're—" I pressed a finger to his lips, slowly removing it and taking his left hand in my free hand.

"I'll tell you why. Paul, when I first met you, I was just a teenaged guitar player with a rule breaking streak and big dreams. I didn't think I was going to go very far in life... And then I met you. When I first heard you play Twenty Flight Rock I thought to myself..." I held his hand like a lifeline. "I thought, 'If we're together, we could do some amazing things with music.' Looks to me like we have." There were tears pricking my eyes. I blinked rapidly to clear them.

"I gained a best friend that day," I continued. "Someone I could write music with, talk to, laugh with, just be myself. I could be the John I knew I was around you, rather than the John everyone else thought I was." I leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips.

"And then about a year ago, I found out I had something even better than a best friend," I licked my lips nervously. "I had a soulmate. This past year has been the best one in my entire life. There is not a time I remember being happier... And I want that happiness to last for the rest of my days." I gulped down the last of my fears and sank to one knee, pulling the box from behind my back and momentarily letting go of Paul's hand to open it and extract the ring.

His eyes looked like saucers when I looked back up again. "John... Oh my..." He couldn't string a sentence together. There were tears gathering in his eyes.

The tears spilled over and down my cheeks, but they were tears of happiness. "James Paul McCartney, I love you with all my heart, and I always will. I want you to be the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see at night. I want to be able to curl up with you in bed on rainy days and sit outside with you in the sun. I want to grow old with you until we're bald, little, toothless old men still hobbling around on the stage. We can never do this the right way, the way I really want to do it, but..." I slid the ring on his finger gently. "Will you marry me?"

Paul's jaw hung open for the longest time. Finally, he got himself together and hauled me upright. "I'm supposed to be the sentimental one, John Winston Lennon, where do you get off with that? Of course I'll marry you, you daft git! I don't care how illegal it might be or that we won't be technically married." He pulled me into his arms for a crushing hug. "I'll be with you, and that's all that matters." We swayed back and forth with the intensity of the embrace.

"Ya bloody poofter," I muttered some time later, not actually serious.

"You should be talking," he replied, running a hand through my hair slowly.

"Point taken."

I felt like we were any other couple head over heels in love and recently engaged. And you know what? We were.

**A/N: I grinned like an idiot the entire time I wrote this. I hope you do too! It was wayy too much fun to write. :)**

**Review? :)**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: The wedding chapter! :D I had finals this week (I'm done now, hallelujah!) so I didn't have time to look up how the wedding vows are actually supposed to go. I've got as close a rendition as I can. Poetic license, okay?**

**I had this written for ages, I was just so busy studying for finals that I couldn't get it posted. :(**

I wondered what most people would say if they knew I was engaged to my songwriting partner. Probably nothing good, that was for certain. So that was why no one knew except George and Ringo. I believe Brian eventually got wind of it as well. We'd learned our lesson previously and accorded our more trustworthy friends the courtesy of knowing everything they needed to know about our relationship. Although, I think our bandmates had accidentally learned more than they'd ever needed or wanted to a few times.

It was the morning of the day John and I had decided to get 'married'. It wouldn't be a real ceremony, it wouldn't actually count as a really marriage, hell, it would be in our hotel on the last night of our tour. To cover up the fact that our 'honeymoon' would be in Paris, we were all flying to Paris under the pretense of a weeklong vacation. What the general public was not aware of was that Ringo and George were staying on the floor below John and I with their wives while we shared a room. To the hotel desk manager, we passed it off as a songwriting break for the Lennon/McCartney team, who needed some space to work their magic.

"Oi, Macca!" Ringo's voice echoed through our hotel room. My head snapped up. I'd been sitting on my bed, turning my ring over and over in my hands. I couldn't wear it, but I always had it in my pocket, wearing it where I knew I wouldn't be seen by unsympathizing eyes. There had been a few times where I'd nearly forgotten to take it off.

"Yeah?" I called, shaking my head to clear it.

"Your arse should've been out here by now, move it!" he responded good-naturedly.

"Oh, sure," I joked, coming out. "The _one_ time you're not the last one out the door, I catch all the blame."

"Yep, c'mon!" I shook my head and grinned. _This band,_ I thought. _I hope we stay together forever._

I was just walking out the door, rubbing the last sleep grit from my eyes, when a hand pulled me back into the room behind the door. John's eyes glittered in the poor lighting. I felt a small grin creep up my face. If I were a cartoon in a comic strip, I was sure there would be comical little pink hearts replacing my eyes and floating around my head. "What?" I asked.

"Nothin'." He shook his head, kissing me softly. "Just got tonight on my mind is all."

"Me too," I replied, squeezing his hand and exiting the hotel room, hurrying to catch up with the rest of our group. "I love you," I whispered while we walked.

"I love you most," he responded, a smirk making one eyebrow raise. I rolled my eyes, shoving at his arm playfully.

"Not this again, you know I always win," I said, getting in the car and settling in with George on one side of me and John on the other. He rested one hand on my thigh, just above me knee. A hot bolt of energy made my skin ultra-sensitive there.

"Lies, such lies," he said confidently. "Because if my memory serves me correctly, I won this argument the last time."

I twisted to look him in the eye. "Really? How poor your memory is, sir!" I adopted a posh accent, blinking rapidly and puffing my cheeks out for effect.

"Beg pardon, sirs," George said in a dryly ironic voice. "But we've just come to our destination and I'm sure the people will get antsy lest we address them."

"Too right, too right," John grumbled pompously. "Off we get then, lads. Shall we give 'em a show to remember?"

If none of us ended up with hearing loss later in life, it would be a miracle of epic proportions. It was a mystery to the entire band how the girls could scream uninterrupted for so long. Maybe it was just the fact that there were so many of them, but at times it seemed like they never drew a breath. Unless of course they fainted, which wasn't unusual. Every so often, I'd look into the crowd and see a girl getting carried off on a white stretcher by a couple of muscular security guards. Now, I was clearly no teenage girl, but somehow, fainting during a concert you paid to go see because you basically forgot to breathe didn't sound like altogether too much fun to me.

Before our last song, John waved at the audience. "Thanks very much for being such a great audience. We're gonna sing one more song I think..." he trailed off and looked at me for confirmation. _Forgot the show order again, I see_,I said through a look and nodded. He scrunched up his nose at me before continuing. "...Yeah, one more song. I believe it's one you all know very well and if you'd stand, clap your hands, stomp your feet, really, whatever tickles your fancy."

_ It's been a hard day's night_

_And I've been working like a dog_

_It's been a hard day's night_

_I should be sleeping like a log_

_But when I get home to you_

_I find the things that you do_

_Will make me feel alright._

_You know I work all day_

_To get you money to buy you things_

_And it's worth it just to hear you say_

_You're going to give me ev'rything_

_So why on earth should I moan_

_'Cause when I get you alone_

_You know I feel ok_

_When I'm home ev'rything seems to be right_

_When I'm home feeling you holding me tight, tight, yeh_

_It's been a hard day's night_

_And I've been working like a dog_

_It's been a hard day's night_

_I should be sleeping like a log_

_But when I get home to you_

_I find the things that you do_

_Will make me feel alright._

_Owww!_

_So why on earth should I moan_

_'cause when I get you alone_

_You know I feel ok_

_When I'm home ev'rything seems to be right_

_When I'm home feeling you holding me tight, tight, yeh_

_It's been a hard day's night_

_And I've been working like a dog_

_It's been a hard day's night_

_I should be sleeping like a log_

_But when I get home to you_

_I find the things that you do_

_Will make me feel alright._

_You know I feel alright_

_You know I feel alright_

Back at the hotel, Ringo and George cleared off under the pretense of having a game of cards with Brian, Mal, and Neil. They probably would end up playing cards—not poker, they'd all learned the hard way that Ringo was the best poker player by a long shot—but that wasn't the reason they left. They were being considerate and giving us our moment alone.

I stepped into the bathroom and carefully pulled my best suit on, straightening the black silk lapels and tugging at the pants so the creases hung straight. No one but John would see me, but even if it was a wedding before three hundred people his opinion would be the only one I'd care about. Which was why I made sure no piece of my suit was out of place. My thin black tie was straight and neatly tied and on the ring finger of my left hand was the ring. It sat more heavily on my finger than usual, as though it were reminding me of what was to happen. Like I could forget.

Suddenly, my hands began to shake. Why was I so nervous? I'd wanted this to happen for so long! Taking a long, deep breath, I squared my shoulders and faced myself in the mirror. "C'mon, Paulie," I whispered to myself. "No reason to be nervous, is there? None at all. Now get out there." It seemed like it took all my strength to get the door open. My legs went into autopilot, carrying me steadily to the main room of the hotel suite. The lights were off, but candles scattered here and there gave off a war, glowing light.

"You took your time." John was standing by the closed curtains of the window. I felt my knees go wobbly at the sight of him. His unruly auburn hair was combed neatly, a rare thing, and a genuine smile made his warm brown eyes sparkle in the light. His suit was clean and his tie was actually tied straight with no help. I sucked in air, feeling like my lungs were collapsing.

I grinned back, my heart pumping erratically. "Don't I always?" I asked with a cheeky wink.

"I think I'll be an adult and not mention the fact that you've just presented me with a very obvious innuendo which is just asking to be mentioned," he said, one eyebrow raised.

"That's a first," I chuckled, stepping forward, close enough to smell John's cologne. He'd purposefully worn the kind he knew made me crazy. The bugger.

"Your statement wounds me," he murmured, taking both of my hands in his. "But as it's not a mortal wound, I suppose we can continue."

He dropped one of my hands to retrieve a little black book from the table next to us. The wedding vows.

"Ladies and gentlemen... or lack thereof," John amended, smirking. "We are gathered to here today to witness the union of James Paul McCartney and myself, John Winston Lennon, in not altogether holy matrimony." I should have known he'd insert his personality in the vows. I'd be deluding myself if I thought otherwise. And yet, it made it feel more real because of it. It reassured me it was indeed John standing before me and not some angel dropped to Earth.

We went through the ceremony until we came to the final vows. "I'll skip the question and say that, yes I, John Winston Lennon, do take you, James Paul McCartney for my unlawfully wedded husband. In sickness and in health, in good times and bad, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, 'til death do us part." I felt tears stinging my eyes, clogging my throat and making it nearly impossible to speak. "And do you, James Paul McCartney take me, imperfect, cheeky me, John Winston Lennon to be your unlawfully wedded husband?" His voice cracked and I looked up to see one crystalline tear fall from his eye. "In sickness and in health, in good times and bad, for richer or poorer, for better or worse... 'til death do us part."

Some tears made their escape down my cheeks, tracing hot patterns on my skin. "I do," I whispered. "Except, while you're bloody cheeky, you're perfect to me."

John blinked rapidly for a moment, completely silent. He clutched my hand with one of his and pulled two gold rings out of his pocket. I slid one onto his finger and he one onto mine. "Well then," he drew out the two words, voice still a little choked with emotion. "Kiss me already, won't you?"

"John," I mumbled in halfhearted protest, which disappeared as soon as his lips made contact with mine with a warm, insistent pressure. His hands ghosted up and down my back, making me shiver and press even closer to him, tracing the tip of my tongue across his bottom lip. All in all, that may have been the most indecent wedding kiss in the history of wedding kisses.

We sat in the armchairs in the room and drank champagne from room service in a sort of imitation reception. I stared at the gold band on my finger, pulling it off and reading the inscription. We'd picked them out previously. Mine said, _My morning, my noon, my night, my love._ John's said, _When life happens, so too can love._

And, lo and behold, it can.

**A/N: Ehehehe, this was so much fun to write, even though it took way too long to post. Stupid final exams. Urgh. But I am now officially on summer break, so maybe more writing! Except I'll be in New Orleans beginning Friday for one week.**

**Review? ;)**


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